Fic: Centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare
Title: Centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC, Sam/Dean/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4500
Notes: Morally-ambiguous!Winchesters, apocalypse, consensual sex with severe power imbalance. Beta by the awesomesauce obeetaybee.
Summary: The Antichrist needs an heir.
All things considered, the Antichrist hasn't been so bad.
The thought occurs to you in a Wal-Mart, as you pull green beans off the shelf, flashlight held between your teeth and heavy cans thudding into the shopping cart. You pause, looking at the lima beans, and grab a few cans of those, too-you're pretty sure your family's not getting enough vitamins and nutrients and whatever. You always hated lima beans, but that was before.
You push the cart down the aisle, maneuvering around the fallen cans on the floor. Three aisles over there's cereal, and sure it's kinda stale and it's not so big on the nutrition, but you're jonesing for some Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and you've got to enjoy the little things if you're gonna keep up your spirits, right? It’s all about the little things these days. A mattress to sleep on. Black-market bartering your way into enough butter to make your parents a cake for their anniversary. Seventy-one days since anyone got cholera from the water supply. Getting something to grow in your sad little garden, seeing a green leaf rising hopefully from the scorched earth. The leaf doesn't know better, doesn’t know to give up in despair because, haven't you heard, it's the end of the world. For the leaf, life goes on.
Yeah, you think, the Antichrist could be worse. After all, there's still Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and people alive to eat it. Well, some people, anyway. The point is, the Antichrist isn't exactly on your Christmas card list, what with the killing people and burning cities to the ground and shaking the earth and all, but sometimes you think about what it'd be like if the Antichrist hadn't been there.
If it'd been just Lucifer.
Lucifer's bloodshed wasn't collateral damage, it was systematic. You remember sitting in the living room with the shades closed, like that could protect you, waiting and listening. The radio stations reported on Lucifer's sweep west, and then, one by one, went to static. And you waited in the dark and quiet for death to come. You waited for an end that never came. Lucifer was interrupted-the Antichrist pursuing him, fighting him. A clash between demonic forces isn't a real joy to live through, but. Well. That's kind of the point. You lived through it. And so did your mom and dad and brother and little sister and that makes you feel pretty okay about the state of things, even if you're scavenging for lima beans in an abandoned superstore.
Legend says-and you gotta take that with a grain of salt, because legend says a lot of things lately-that Lucifer was supposed to wield the Antichrist as his weapon. To use him to cut out the heart of humanity. The Antichrist, apparently, didn't take too kindly to being wielded. If there's one thing you've all learned quite well, it's not to piss off the Antichrist. He may not be actively trying to eradicate the human race, but motherfucker's got a temper. Mob of hunters in West Virginia learned that the hard way, you hear. Not much of West Virginia left anymore.
You circle past the camping stuff on your way out, hoping they have some of those little cookstoves, but there's a stomach-turning and familiar smell coming from that corner, and you make a mental note to have the body detail swing by here tomorrow. Thought you'd done a full sweep of the store already, but it's hard to be sure in the dark. If they'd known the whole state was gonna lose power, they probably would've built some windows in this place.
Your brother's calling from the front of the store, so you hurry toward the abandoned checkout lanes, one wheel on the cart squeaking plaintively as you push it faster. Josh's cart is full to overflowing, blankets and medical supplies and what you're pretty sure is an X-Box-whatever, maybe he'll take it out of the box and pet it or something. He always did want one of those.
"Clean-up on aisle four," you tell him.
"Ew." He wrinkles his nose. Whatever poor soul's back stinking up housewares has probably been lying there for weeks, months maybe. Crawling in here to die like a wounded animal and never crawling back out.
You both push your carts into the dying daylight, eyes flicking automatically to the black storm in the western sky-from this distance, they look like real clouds. The carts rattle loudly on the broken pavement as you make your way toward home. You push with one hand as the other automatically goes to the folded paper in your pocket. Doesn't say much: a date, a time, a place. A black-eyed woman who you think used to be the elementary school librarian pushed it into your hand in the town square today (you think of the Antichrist's soldiers like hornets-leave them alone and they'll probably leave you alone-probably.) She looked you up and down before she gave you the paper, appraising.
When you get home, the sun's almost down, so you and Josh scurry inside the encampment, close the gate, lay down salt lines. You pull the paper out and read it again by the guttering light of a kerosene lamp. A date, a time, a place.
The Antichrist's not so bad. Right? Could be worse. Probably saved your lives. Does have that temper. Don't get between him and what he wants. Best case scenario is if you can get on his good side, you figure. Assuming he has a good side. They say he looks out for his own-and yeah. You're a pragmatist. You don't want your family to be included in the collateral damage next time the Antichrist and Lucifer go to fisticuffs. And maybe you're tired of being hungry and cold. Maybe you're wondering if it could be better than this.
So, here's the thing.
The Antichrist needs an heir.
They say the Antichrist has cloven hoofs, a tail, and horns.
"Yeah, but horns where?" Josh says, looking significantly at his own crotch. "I hear it's got spikes. They say he rips girls apart."
You know your brother's only being a dick because he's scared for you. Hates this plan. "They used to say he rode a pale horse and drank the blood of infants," you tell him. "Nobody knows what they're talking about."
"Don't go," your brother says. "Even if you-what if you do, you know. Let him-I mean, it might not even be human."
They say he was human, once.
"He's just a man," you say, but your heart is racing.
The address on the paper is for a generic, mid-priced hotel a few towns over. The kind of place your family used to stay on interminable cross-country car trips. A plastic bag blows across the parking lot like a lonely tumbleweed. You're not sure what you expected from the Antichrist's compound-metal detectors, demons in fatigues? But you suppose that no one gets close without the Antichrist knowing it.
There's a room full of twentysomething women, plenty of them prettier than you, and your heart sinks. You're never gonna be picked out of this bunch. A black-eyed man who once taught you driver's ed hands you a slip of paper with a number on it, and you find a folding chair and settle uncomfortably into it. You never would have thought the apocalypse would be so similar to waiting in line at the DMV.
You cross, then straighten, then re-cross your legs. You check your armpits for sweat-stains and wish you had a working shower or a washing machine or anything.
This is pretty much the most fucked-up job interview ever.
One by one, the women's numbers are called and they go into the next room. You can hear the tones of the conversation-a man's voice polite and calm, the women laughing nervously. Some come out after just a few minutes, others are in there for half an hour. The driver's ed teacher-this was once a small town, now grown even smaller, so most of the black-eyed faces are familiar-keeps trying to offer the waiting women water and donuts, and you conclude that demons suck at being reassuring.
The shadow creeps across the wall as time passes. You listen to the quiet conversations of the other women in the waiting room. Speculation and anxiety and occasionally excitement. A few of them seem to think they'll be able to ingratiate themselves, some ambitious or romantic notion of sitting at the Antichrist's right hand.
If they knew anything, they'd know that position was already occupied.
When they call your number, you go into the little room, and an obscenely handsome man stands up from his chair to greet you. He reminds you of the boy you'd once wished would ask you to prom, but who took the head cheerleader instead. Too bad he's probably a demon.
The questions are pretty boring, pretty bland. Height, weight, age. Medical history. But the man's always watching you, like he's looking for the answers between your words.
"Okay," he says eventually. "One more question."
"Yeah," you say. "All right." You fight the urge to fidget.
"Why are you here?"
You freeze. Of all the questions to ask. What does he want to hear, what does he want to hear. What does the perfect concubine say to that question? Your mind works frantically, but you can't come up with a polished lie and without meaning to, you tell the truth.
"My family," you choke out. The man nods and you think fuck what kind of a fucking answer is that fuck fuck lost my chance.
Then he goes to the door and sticks his head out. "Think we're all done here," he tells the demon running the waiting room. You hear sounds of dismay from the women still out there who've been waiting for hours. "Give 'em a room for the night if they can't get home yet."
"Of course, Mr. Winchester," the demon says, and you stop breathing. Winchester.
The handsome man shuts the door and turns back to you, smiling. He holds out a hand. "All right, sweetheart, I'm Dean."
As if the Antichrist's consort-right hand man-needs any introduction. You stare at his hand, and then shake it. His hand is warm, rough with work. Normal. And he asks your name, which surprises you, because you hadn't expected someone like him to care.
Dean cares. In his way.
He's real gentle, talks softly, asks you about yourself as he leads you into a clean, well-appointed room upstairs, big bed in the center of it. Some part of you expected a stone altar and thinks, maybe that comes later. The room has an un-lived-in look, like it's used only for this purpose.
"Get undressed," Dean says, and you think this is really happening to me.
You peel your clothes off-you'd worn your best, such as it is, hoped to make a good impression, but you'll just have to make your impression naked. You shiver a little as you fold the clothes and leave them on a chair.
"Are you cold?" Dean's already at the thermostat, turning the dial to tropical-summer levels. "Just let me know about that kind of thing, all right? Speak up. You don't have to be-" He looks over at you, meets your eyes. "You don't have to be uncomfortable."
Dean's eyes are warm, and his voice says hey, I'm a trustworthy guy, and he has freckles and crinkles around his eyes. But when he walks toward you, you back away, away from Dean, away from the bed. This only means you end up pinned to the wall, Dean and his warm eyes standing so close you can feel his body heat. You're thinking no, no, I didn't sign up for this, and you're thinking about demon gangbangs now, and you can't believe you were so stupid and came here and thought you'd be safe.
He runs a thumb across your cheekbone, and your traitorous mind notices that his hands are strong and calloused. "You don't have to be scared," he says, and you can't stop the hysterical hiccup of a laugh that breaks out of you at that, and immediately you think oh god oh shit why did I laugh, but the corner of Dean's mouth turns in a sad little smile. He leans in, lips brushing the crook of your neck, and the man even smells good. "Let me make this easy for you," he says, and kisses the delicate skin behind your ear like a lover.
You shiver. Part of you is screaming that if there's anything worse than being here of your own free will, it's enjoying yourself. But life being what it is lately, you know a thing or two about suffering. You're intimately acquainted with it in all of its forms. You're really fucking tired of suffering.
That, and Dean smells incredibly good. So you turn your face into Dean's, and your mouth finds his. It's an awkward angle. He's a little rough with stubble. You shiver again.
You can feel Dean smiling into the kiss, and when he pulls away, whispering, "Good girl," you can see relief and a spark of mischief in his face. Then his expression snaps back to all-business. "First things first," he says. "You need anything before we get going? Drink of water? Use the bathroom?"
You shake your head. You haven't been able to eat in twenty-four hours, stomach roiling with nervousness. And you haven't been drinking, either, because you're afraid that when you see him you might piss yourself. You wouldn't be the first, from what you hear.
"Words, sweetheart," Dean says.
"I'm all right," you tell him. "Just when is-uh, when-"
"My brother?" Oh shit, you think, it's true. Brothers. "He's finishing up some business. He'll be here soon, but we got a little time."
You don't know what business means in this context, but you're pretty sure you don't want to. "So what do we-"
Dean's gaze runs over you from head to toe. "Now, you go lie down on that bed." He kisses you again, deeper. "And I help you relax."
And you figure, yes, okay, good plan. You've got one knee up on the bed when you take a closer look at it.
When you see the leather restraints hanging loosely at the corners of the bed, every muscle in your body snaps tight with tension. Dean sees immediately, crowds in close saying, "Hey, it's okay, only if you want to-"
"Want to?" He didn't kill you for laughing, so hopefully incredulity's okay.
"Sometimes girls get scared." Dean sits on the bed and touches one of the restraints. "They're fine and then they panic. So if you think you might, you can use these, okay? Only if you need them. To help you stay still."
You're still trying to wrap your head around that logic. "No, I don't want-I don't-I'm fine."
"Don't try to run, all right?" Dean fingers the leather strap, not meeting your eyes. "He'd have to stop you." The leather creaks a little under his touch. "And don't cry. He-" Dean pauses and for the briefest of moments, you see the ragged edge of his smooth confidence. "Crying girls. He has a thing about them."
You swallow the lump in your throat. "I won't. I won't."
"This isn't relaxing you." He meets your eyes now.
"No."
"Sorry." And he looks so earnest that you think he must be the best liar on earth.
Fuck it, you think, I’m here, I’m doing this, reasons why haven't changed. So you lean in and kiss him again. He starts, surprised, then laughs, bites your bottom lip and licks at it till you open up for him, let him kiss you deep. His big hand at the small of your back supports you as he leans the weight of his body into you, pushing you back onto the bed.
He pulls away just enough to start shedding layers of flannel and denim. "Oh, sweetheart," he says. "You're gonna have a good time. I promise."
You feel better once you're skin-on-skin with him, like you're equal now even though you're really not. Dean's big, solid, an authoritative bulk, like he wasn't built to be anyone's second-in-command, anyone's consort.
Dean gets you all worked up, just from lying on top of you, pressing you into the bed, running his hands all over you, and when you're gasping, opening your mouth to his kisses, turning your head to let him suck a bruise into your neck, you forget who he is.
When strong fingers slip between your thighs, you remember. Your legs close automatically, trapping his hand.
He stills. "Hey. You a virgin?" And then your thoughts are divided between ahahaha not in a long while, buddy and fuck fuck fuck no one said anything about having to be a virgin, but when Dean sees the panic on your face he laughs at you. "Ain't a requirement, doll, that's all bullshit tradition. Just would've taken a little more to get you ready."
His trapped fingers move against you. You spread your legs. As Dean begins to play with you, fingers roaming experimentally, seeing what you like, your worries slip away again.
And admittedly, it's been a long damn time since anyone tumbled you into bed, you having been kind of preoccupied with the end of the world lately. So when Dean's got three fingers worked into you and a fourth teasing along next to them, you're squirming in discomfort. He rocks his fingers carefully and says, "Just relax, sweetheart. Gotta open you up. You'll be glad I did."
You seem to have temporarily lost the power of speech but he sees your questioning look.
"Sammy's a big guy."
"Sammy?"
Dean seems to be politely stifling the amusement in his face. "M'brother. You expecting someone else?"
And you're so busy processing the fact that to someone, the Antichrist is a Sammy, you don't even notice Dean moving until you feel his scratchy almost-beard against your inner thigh and then oh god his tongue.
When Dean starts licking you, your fingers grip tight to handfuls of sheets, and you can't quite stop these noises coming out of your throat, because he may be evil but the man is very, very good at this.
When Dean looks up from between your legs, his face is shining with your wetness, chin and cheeks and those sinful lips and that scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. The freckles are all part of the package-the tones in his accent flat as the Midwest where (legend says) he grew up, the bright smile, the good looks-it all tries to tell you that he's just a wholesome corn-fed nice guy. But if you're certain of anything, it's that Dean Winchester is not just some nice guy, freckles or no freckles.
He ducks down, tongue moving against you, and your hands clutch at his hair.
When the door quietly opens it doesn't even register, because you're kind of distracted. Dean's groaning against your cunt, his tongue a steady rhythm against your clit, and three of his fingers are sliding in and out of you, stretching you wide, making you feel so full, not bad-pain, just a stretch, a challenge that you're oh-so willing to take on.
So it's only when a possessive hand runs over Dean, from his ass over his flank to grip his shoulder, that you notice the newcomer. Your moans choke off in your throat and you jerk against Dean, 'cause there's only one person this could be.
The Antichrist is … normal. Handsome. Tall. Younger than you'd have guessed. Clean-cut, even, in his trousers and shirtsleeves and loosened tie. He looks like the kind of young executive or lawyer your parents used to try to set you up with.
He cups a large hand against the back of Dean's neck, and Dean turns his face into the Antichrist's kiss. The tension of arousal in Dean's face softens into something peaceful, perfectly content. You haven't seen anyone look that way in a long time.
Dean moves from between your legs and there you are, naked and spread out and the most dangerous man on earth puts his hands on your waist (big hands, nice hands) and pulls you right up to the edge of the bed without making eye contact. Dean's crawling in behind you on the bed, supporting your upper body and hooking his chin over your shoulder, lips brushing your neck. The Antichrist-no, Sam-opens his fly and you see that he's already hard, and also son of bitch three fingers wasn't enough. Sam leans over you and you feel the head of his cock against your wetness and you tense up in anticipation, but then there's a hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam looks up, looks past you back at Dean.
"She's tight," Dean says. "You gotta give it to her slow."
And Sam nods obediently, that soft look still in his eyes when he looks at Dean, and he slows down, teasing his cock along your slit until you think okay, yes, this. At some unseen signal from Dean, Sam starts to push inside and your breath catches, but Dean's right there, holding you up from behind, stroking your hair back from your forehead and whispering in your ear, "Good girl, that's it, you can take him." One inch in, then another, and another. "You're doing so good, so brave." Sam slides deeper, then deeper still, and you're stretched wide and you feel like he's opening up a new space inside of you that wasn't there before. "That's it, you can take all of him, sweetheart. Almost there, just a little more-" And then Sam's hips are nestled right up between your legs, you can feel the cloth of the pants he didn't bother to take off, and you take a deep breath, adjusting to having him inside of you. You can only imagine what this would've been like without Dean helping you, getting you ready, talking you through it.
When Sam starts moving, the panic you thought was gone rises up in you again, not even because of who and what he is, but because there's a bare cock inside of you and the visceral danger of it gets your heart racing, even though unsafe sex is kind of the point here.
But Dean keeps talking to you, low and dirty and reassuring, only stopping when Sam looks up periodically to kiss him over your shoulder, a sight that should not, should never send a thrill down your spine, but it does, the wet sound of their mouths, the intimacy shared between them even if you aren't a part of it.
Dean's hands never leave your body, keeping your mind there in the moment, looking after your pleasure while Sam, businesslike, fucks you.
You study the man above you. His eyes are always closed or focused on Dean. You like the line of his jaw. There's something strangely boyish about him, so young, so handsome. He's supposed to be a legend, not a person, but he's there, on top of you, inside of you, and you can see the curl in his hair, the flecks in his iris. Sammy, Dean called him. His breath grows ragged like a normal person, he sweats like a normal person, and you're totally unprepared for the wave of desire that washes over you when you realize that he really is what you've been protesting to your worried family-he's just a man.
You rock your hips into Sam's next thrust, start moving along with him, and suddenly Dean's efforts to help you enjoy yourself are much, much more effective. You wish Sam were looking at you, wish his mouth was on you, wish you could unbutton that shirt of his and see what's underneath it, but you have none of those things and you still feel that building rising feeling inside of you, like hot water about to boil over.
When Sam starts getting close, he gets rough, slamming into you too hard, gripping you too tight, and you're just starting to think about how this is not how you want to meet your end when Dean reaches past you to touch Sam, stroke over his hair, pass a thumb over his lip. Their mouths meet and Dean's murmuring against Sam's mouth now, that same low, calm tone. "Careful," he whispers. "Gentle. Girls can break."
And Sam's nodding against him, echoing "Careful," kissing Dean again and continuing to rock into you, mindful this time.
With Dean's thumb on your clit and Sam filling you up, you come in slow waves that clear every thought from your head. You're brought back to reality abruptly when Sam pushes into you and stills, his body curled over you, face tucked down and hidden like this takes something out of him. When he pulls out, you can feel a trickle of his come, and it hits you like lightning-that's what's inside you. You're full of it, vulnerable to it, desperate for it, all these things.
Sam zips up and heads for the door, and okay, you weren't expecting to cuddle but some acknowledgement might be nice-and he stops.
He turns to Dean. "Do you like her?"
"Yeah, Sammy." Dean smiles at Sam like he makes the sun rise (which, for all you know, he does.) "She's a good one."
Sam turns to you and breaks into a smile, and it's the most astonishing thing you've ever seen. He's beautiful. The Antichrist has dimples. "Come back," he says. "If it doesn't take. Come back around and we'll give it another try."
It takes you a moment to reel in your rampaging thoughts and answer. "Yes. Yes. Of course."
And even after Sam's turned and left the room, his smile stays with you, and suddenly you understand why some humans choose to follow him. Why they'd follow him anywhere. And then you think, goddamn. A son or a daughter with those dimples. Beautiful. Powerful. Commanding.
Dean's grinning and relaxed after Sam leaves, like he's just engineered a successful blind date and is congratulating himself on his matchmaking. Before you go home you have a warm shower and a hot meal-you could really get used to that-and listen to Dean, all business again, rattle off instructions about pregnancy tests and prenatal vitamins, about moving your family to the hotel for safety if this attempt takes.
Dean's still saying if, but you already know, with a quiet certainty. You'll be the one to bear Sam Winchester's heir.
And as you walk home, past the plastic bag still circling the parking lot, glancing at the dark storm on the horizon, you know something else. Sam will win. Someday, those clouds will dissipate. Your child will look up into a clear sky.
Author: britomart_is
Pairing: Sam/Dean, Dean/OFC, Sam/OFC, Sam/Dean/OFC
Rating: NC-17
Words: 4500
Notes: Morally-ambiguous!Winchesters, apocalypse, consensual sex with severe power imbalance. Beta by the awesomesauce obeetaybee.
Summary: The Antichrist needs an heir.
All things considered, the Antichrist hasn't been so bad.
The thought occurs to you in a Wal-Mart, as you pull green beans off the shelf, flashlight held between your teeth and heavy cans thudding into the shopping cart. You pause, looking at the lima beans, and grab a few cans of those, too-you're pretty sure your family's not getting enough vitamins and nutrients and whatever. You always hated lima beans, but that was before.
You push the cart down the aisle, maneuvering around the fallen cans on the floor. Three aisles over there's cereal, and sure it's kinda stale and it's not so big on the nutrition, but you're jonesing for some Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and you've got to enjoy the little things if you're gonna keep up your spirits, right? It’s all about the little things these days. A mattress to sleep on. Black-market bartering your way into enough butter to make your parents a cake for their anniversary. Seventy-one days since anyone got cholera from the water supply. Getting something to grow in your sad little garden, seeing a green leaf rising hopefully from the scorched earth. The leaf doesn't know better, doesn’t know to give up in despair because, haven't you heard, it's the end of the world. For the leaf, life goes on.
Yeah, you think, the Antichrist could be worse. After all, there's still Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and people alive to eat it. Well, some people, anyway. The point is, the Antichrist isn't exactly on your Christmas card list, what with the killing people and burning cities to the ground and shaking the earth and all, but sometimes you think about what it'd be like if the Antichrist hadn't been there.
If it'd been just Lucifer.
Lucifer's bloodshed wasn't collateral damage, it was systematic. You remember sitting in the living room with the shades closed, like that could protect you, waiting and listening. The radio stations reported on Lucifer's sweep west, and then, one by one, went to static. And you waited in the dark and quiet for death to come. You waited for an end that never came. Lucifer was interrupted-the Antichrist pursuing him, fighting him. A clash between demonic forces isn't a real joy to live through, but. Well. That's kind of the point. You lived through it. And so did your mom and dad and brother and little sister and that makes you feel pretty okay about the state of things, even if you're scavenging for lima beans in an abandoned superstore.
Legend says-and you gotta take that with a grain of salt, because legend says a lot of things lately-that Lucifer was supposed to wield the Antichrist as his weapon. To use him to cut out the heart of humanity. The Antichrist, apparently, didn't take too kindly to being wielded. If there's one thing you've all learned quite well, it's not to piss off the Antichrist. He may not be actively trying to eradicate the human race, but motherfucker's got a temper. Mob of hunters in West Virginia learned that the hard way, you hear. Not much of West Virginia left anymore.
You circle past the camping stuff on your way out, hoping they have some of those little cookstoves, but there's a stomach-turning and familiar smell coming from that corner, and you make a mental note to have the body detail swing by here tomorrow. Thought you'd done a full sweep of the store already, but it's hard to be sure in the dark. If they'd known the whole state was gonna lose power, they probably would've built some windows in this place.
Your brother's calling from the front of the store, so you hurry toward the abandoned checkout lanes, one wheel on the cart squeaking plaintively as you push it faster. Josh's cart is full to overflowing, blankets and medical supplies and what you're pretty sure is an X-Box-whatever, maybe he'll take it out of the box and pet it or something. He always did want one of those.
"Clean-up on aisle four," you tell him.
"Ew." He wrinkles his nose. Whatever poor soul's back stinking up housewares has probably been lying there for weeks, months maybe. Crawling in here to die like a wounded animal and never crawling back out.
You both push your carts into the dying daylight, eyes flicking automatically to the black storm in the western sky-from this distance, they look like real clouds. The carts rattle loudly on the broken pavement as you make your way toward home. You push with one hand as the other automatically goes to the folded paper in your pocket. Doesn't say much: a date, a time, a place. A black-eyed woman who you think used to be the elementary school librarian pushed it into your hand in the town square today (you think of the Antichrist's soldiers like hornets-leave them alone and they'll probably leave you alone-probably.) She looked you up and down before she gave you the paper, appraising.
When you get home, the sun's almost down, so you and Josh scurry inside the encampment, close the gate, lay down salt lines. You pull the paper out and read it again by the guttering light of a kerosene lamp. A date, a time, a place.
The Antichrist's not so bad. Right? Could be worse. Probably saved your lives. Does have that temper. Don't get between him and what he wants. Best case scenario is if you can get on his good side, you figure. Assuming he has a good side. They say he looks out for his own-and yeah. You're a pragmatist. You don't want your family to be included in the collateral damage next time the Antichrist and Lucifer go to fisticuffs. And maybe you're tired of being hungry and cold. Maybe you're wondering if it could be better than this.
So, here's the thing.
The Antichrist needs an heir.
They say the Antichrist has cloven hoofs, a tail, and horns.
"Yeah, but horns where?" Josh says, looking significantly at his own crotch. "I hear it's got spikes. They say he rips girls apart."
You know your brother's only being a dick because he's scared for you. Hates this plan. "They used to say he rode a pale horse and drank the blood of infants," you tell him. "Nobody knows what they're talking about."
"Don't go," your brother says. "Even if you-what if you do, you know. Let him-I mean, it might not even be human."
They say he was human, once.
"He's just a man," you say, but your heart is racing.
The address on the paper is for a generic, mid-priced hotel a few towns over. The kind of place your family used to stay on interminable cross-country car trips. A plastic bag blows across the parking lot like a lonely tumbleweed. You're not sure what you expected from the Antichrist's compound-metal detectors, demons in fatigues? But you suppose that no one gets close without the Antichrist knowing it.
There's a room full of twentysomething women, plenty of them prettier than you, and your heart sinks. You're never gonna be picked out of this bunch. A black-eyed man who once taught you driver's ed hands you a slip of paper with a number on it, and you find a folding chair and settle uncomfortably into it. You never would have thought the apocalypse would be so similar to waiting in line at the DMV.
You cross, then straighten, then re-cross your legs. You check your armpits for sweat-stains and wish you had a working shower or a washing machine or anything.
This is pretty much the most fucked-up job interview ever.
One by one, the women's numbers are called and they go into the next room. You can hear the tones of the conversation-a man's voice polite and calm, the women laughing nervously. Some come out after just a few minutes, others are in there for half an hour. The driver's ed teacher-this was once a small town, now grown even smaller, so most of the black-eyed faces are familiar-keeps trying to offer the waiting women water and donuts, and you conclude that demons suck at being reassuring.
The shadow creeps across the wall as time passes. You listen to the quiet conversations of the other women in the waiting room. Speculation and anxiety and occasionally excitement. A few of them seem to think they'll be able to ingratiate themselves, some ambitious or romantic notion of sitting at the Antichrist's right hand.
If they knew anything, they'd know that position was already occupied.
When they call your number, you go into the little room, and an obscenely handsome man stands up from his chair to greet you. He reminds you of the boy you'd once wished would ask you to prom, but who took the head cheerleader instead. Too bad he's probably a demon.
The questions are pretty boring, pretty bland. Height, weight, age. Medical history. But the man's always watching you, like he's looking for the answers between your words.
"Okay," he says eventually. "One more question."
"Yeah," you say. "All right." You fight the urge to fidget.
"Why are you here?"
You freeze. Of all the questions to ask. What does he want to hear, what does he want to hear. What does the perfect concubine say to that question? Your mind works frantically, but you can't come up with a polished lie and without meaning to, you tell the truth.
"My family," you choke out. The man nods and you think fuck what kind of a fucking answer is that fuck fuck lost my chance.
Then he goes to the door and sticks his head out. "Think we're all done here," he tells the demon running the waiting room. You hear sounds of dismay from the women still out there who've been waiting for hours. "Give 'em a room for the night if they can't get home yet."
"Of course, Mr. Winchester," the demon says, and you stop breathing. Winchester.
The handsome man shuts the door and turns back to you, smiling. He holds out a hand. "All right, sweetheart, I'm Dean."
As if the Antichrist's consort-right hand man-needs any introduction. You stare at his hand, and then shake it. His hand is warm, rough with work. Normal. And he asks your name, which surprises you, because you hadn't expected someone like him to care.
Dean cares. In his way.
He's real gentle, talks softly, asks you about yourself as he leads you into a clean, well-appointed room upstairs, big bed in the center of it. Some part of you expected a stone altar and thinks, maybe that comes later. The room has an un-lived-in look, like it's used only for this purpose.
"Get undressed," Dean says, and you think this is really happening to me.
You peel your clothes off-you'd worn your best, such as it is, hoped to make a good impression, but you'll just have to make your impression naked. You shiver a little as you fold the clothes and leave them on a chair.
"Are you cold?" Dean's already at the thermostat, turning the dial to tropical-summer levels. "Just let me know about that kind of thing, all right? Speak up. You don't have to be-" He looks over at you, meets your eyes. "You don't have to be uncomfortable."
Dean's eyes are warm, and his voice says hey, I'm a trustworthy guy, and he has freckles and crinkles around his eyes. But when he walks toward you, you back away, away from Dean, away from the bed. This only means you end up pinned to the wall, Dean and his warm eyes standing so close you can feel his body heat. You're thinking no, no, I didn't sign up for this, and you're thinking about demon gangbangs now, and you can't believe you were so stupid and came here and thought you'd be safe.
He runs a thumb across your cheekbone, and your traitorous mind notices that his hands are strong and calloused. "You don't have to be scared," he says, and you can't stop the hysterical hiccup of a laugh that breaks out of you at that, and immediately you think oh god oh shit why did I laugh, but the corner of Dean's mouth turns in a sad little smile. He leans in, lips brushing the crook of your neck, and the man even smells good. "Let me make this easy for you," he says, and kisses the delicate skin behind your ear like a lover.
You shiver. Part of you is screaming that if there's anything worse than being here of your own free will, it's enjoying yourself. But life being what it is lately, you know a thing or two about suffering. You're intimately acquainted with it in all of its forms. You're really fucking tired of suffering.
That, and Dean smells incredibly good. So you turn your face into Dean's, and your mouth finds his. It's an awkward angle. He's a little rough with stubble. You shiver again.
You can feel Dean smiling into the kiss, and when he pulls away, whispering, "Good girl," you can see relief and a spark of mischief in his face. Then his expression snaps back to all-business. "First things first," he says. "You need anything before we get going? Drink of water? Use the bathroom?"
You shake your head. You haven't been able to eat in twenty-four hours, stomach roiling with nervousness. And you haven't been drinking, either, because you're afraid that when you see him you might piss yourself. You wouldn't be the first, from what you hear.
"Words, sweetheart," Dean says.
"I'm all right," you tell him. "Just when is-uh, when-"
"My brother?" Oh shit, you think, it's true. Brothers. "He's finishing up some business. He'll be here soon, but we got a little time."
You don't know what business means in this context, but you're pretty sure you don't want to. "So what do we-"
Dean's gaze runs over you from head to toe. "Now, you go lie down on that bed." He kisses you again, deeper. "And I help you relax."
And you figure, yes, okay, good plan. You've got one knee up on the bed when you take a closer look at it.
When you see the leather restraints hanging loosely at the corners of the bed, every muscle in your body snaps tight with tension. Dean sees immediately, crowds in close saying, "Hey, it's okay, only if you want to-"
"Want to?" He didn't kill you for laughing, so hopefully incredulity's okay.
"Sometimes girls get scared." Dean sits on the bed and touches one of the restraints. "They're fine and then they panic. So if you think you might, you can use these, okay? Only if you need them. To help you stay still."
You're still trying to wrap your head around that logic. "No, I don't want-I don't-I'm fine."
"Don't try to run, all right?" Dean fingers the leather strap, not meeting your eyes. "He'd have to stop you." The leather creaks a little under his touch. "And don't cry. He-" Dean pauses and for the briefest of moments, you see the ragged edge of his smooth confidence. "Crying girls. He has a thing about them."
You swallow the lump in your throat. "I won't. I won't."
"This isn't relaxing you." He meets your eyes now.
"No."
"Sorry." And he looks so earnest that you think he must be the best liar on earth.
Fuck it, you think, I’m here, I’m doing this, reasons why haven't changed. So you lean in and kiss him again. He starts, surprised, then laughs, bites your bottom lip and licks at it till you open up for him, let him kiss you deep. His big hand at the small of your back supports you as he leans the weight of his body into you, pushing you back onto the bed.
He pulls away just enough to start shedding layers of flannel and denim. "Oh, sweetheart," he says. "You're gonna have a good time. I promise."
You feel better once you're skin-on-skin with him, like you're equal now even though you're really not. Dean's big, solid, an authoritative bulk, like he wasn't built to be anyone's second-in-command, anyone's consort.
Dean gets you all worked up, just from lying on top of you, pressing you into the bed, running his hands all over you, and when you're gasping, opening your mouth to his kisses, turning your head to let him suck a bruise into your neck, you forget who he is.
When strong fingers slip between your thighs, you remember. Your legs close automatically, trapping his hand.
He stills. "Hey. You a virgin?" And then your thoughts are divided between ahahaha not in a long while, buddy and fuck fuck fuck no one said anything about having to be a virgin, but when Dean sees the panic on your face he laughs at you. "Ain't a requirement, doll, that's all bullshit tradition. Just would've taken a little more to get you ready."
His trapped fingers move against you. You spread your legs. As Dean begins to play with you, fingers roaming experimentally, seeing what you like, your worries slip away again.
And admittedly, it's been a long damn time since anyone tumbled you into bed, you having been kind of preoccupied with the end of the world lately. So when Dean's got three fingers worked into you and a fourth teasing along next to them, you're squirming in discomfort. He rocks his fingers carefully and says, "Just relax, sweetheart. Gotta open you up. You'll be glad I did."
You seem to have temporarily lost the power of speech but he sees your questioning look.
"Sammy's a big guy."
"Sammy?"
Dean seems to be politely stifling the amusement in his face. "M'brother. You expecting someone else?"
And you're so busy processing the fact that to someone, the Antichrist is a Sammy, you don't even notice Dean moving until you feel his scratchy almost-beard against your inner thigh and then oh god his tongue.
When Dean starts licking you, your fingers grip tight to handfuls of sheets, and you can't quite stop these noises coming out of your throat, because he may be evil but the man is very, very good at this.
When Dean looks up from between your legs, his face is shining with your wetness, chin and cheeks and those sinful lips and that scattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose. The freckles are all part of the package-the tones in his accent flat as the Midwest where (legend says) he grew up, the bright smile, the good looks-it all tries to tell you that he's just a wholesome corn-fed nice guy. But if you're certain of anything, it's that Dean Winchester is not just some nice guy, freckles or no freckles.
He ducks down, tongue moving against you, and your hands clutch at his hair.
When the door quietly opens it doesn't even register, because you're kind of distracted. Dean's groaning against your cunt, his tongue a steady rhythm against your clit, and three of his fingers are sliding in and out of you, stretching you wide, making you feel so full, not bad-pain, just a stretch, a challenge that you're oh-so willing to take on.
So it's only when a possessive hand runs over Dean, from his ass over his flank to grip his shoulder, that you notice the newcomer. Your moans choke off in your throat and you jerk against Dean, 'cause there's only one person this could be.
The Antichrist is … normal. Handsome. Tall. Younger than you'd have guessed. Clean-cut, even, in his trousers and shirtsleeves and loosened tie. He looks like the kind of young executive or lawyer your parents used to try to set you up with.
He cups a large hand against the back of Dean's neck, and Dean turns his face into the Antichrist's kiss. The tension of arousal in Dean's face softens into something peaceful, perfectly content. You haven't seen anyone look that way in a long time.
Dean moves from between your legs and there you are, naked and spread out and the most dangerous man on earth puts his hands on your waist (big hands, nice hands) and pulls you right up to the edge of the bed without making eye contact. Dean's crawling in behind you on the bed, supporting your upper body and hooking his chin over your shoulder, lips brushing your neck. The Antichrist-no, Sam-opens his fly and you see that he's already hard, and also son of bitch three fingers wasn't enough. Sam leans over you and you feel the head of his cock against your wetness and you tense up in anticipation, but then there's a hand on Sam's shoulder, and Sam looks up, looks past you back at Dean.
"She's tight," Dean says. "You gotta give it to her slow."
And Sam nods obediently, that soft look still in his eyes when he looks at Dean, and he slows down, teasing his cock along your slit until you think okay, yes, this. At some unseen signal from Dean, Sam starts to push inside and your breath catches, but Dean's right there, holding you up from behind, stroking your hair back from your forehead and whispering in your ear, "Good girl, that's it, you can take him." One inch in, then another, and another. "You're doing so good, so brave." Sam slides deeper, then deeper still, and you're stretched wide and you feel like he's opening up a new space inside of you that wasn't there before. "That's it, you can take all of him, sweetheart. Almost there, just a little more-" And then Sam's hips are nestled right up between your legs, you can feel the cloth of the pants he didn't bother to take off, and you take a deep breath, adjusting to having him inside of you. You can only imagine what this would've been like without Dean helping you, getting you ready, talking you through it.
When Sam starts moving, the panic you thought was gone rises up in you again, not even because of who and what he is, but because there's a bare cock inside of you and the visceral danger of it gets your heart racing, even though unsafe sex is kind of the point here.
But Dean keeps talking to you, low and dirty and reassuring, only stopping when Sam looks up periodically to kiss him over your shoulder, a sight that should not, should never send a thrill down your spine, but it does, the wet sound of their mouths, the intimacy shared between them even if you aren't a part of it.
Dean's hands never leave your body, keeping your mind there in the moment, looking after your pleasure while Sam, businesslike, fucks you.
You study the man above you. His eyes are always closed or focused on Dean. You like the line of his jaw. There's something strangely boyish about him, so young, so handsome. He's supposed to be a legend, not a person, but he's there, on top of you, inside of you, and you can see the curl in his hair, the flecks in his iris. Sammy, Dean called him. His breath grows ragged like a normal person, he sweats like a normal person, and you're totally unprepared for the wave of desire that washes over you when you realize that he really is what you've been protesting to your worried family-he's just a man.
You rock your hips into Sam's next thrust, start moving along with him, and suddenly Dean's efforts to help you enjoy yourself are much, much more effective. You wish Sam were looking at you, wish his mouth was on you, wish you could unbutton that shirt of his and see what's underneath it, but you have none of those things and you still feel that building rising feeling inside of you, like hot water about to boil over.
When Sam starts getting close, he gets rough, slamming into you too hard, gripping you too tight, and you're just starting to think about how this is not how you want to meet your end when Dean reaches past you to touch Sam, stroke over his hair, pass a thumb over his lip. Their mouths meet and Dean's murmuring against Sam's mouth now, that same low, calm tone. "Careful," he whispers. "Gentle. Girls can break."
And Sam's nodding against him, echoing "Careful," kissing Dean again and continuing to rock into you, mindful this time.
With Dean's thumb on your clit and Sam filling you up, you come in slow waves that clear every thought from your head. You're brought back to reality abruptly when Sam pushes into you and stills, his body curled over you, face tucked down and hidden like this takes something out of him. When he pulls out, you can feel a trickle of his come, and it hits you like lightning-that's what's inside you. You're full of it, vulnerable to it, desperate for it, all these things.
Sam zips up and heads for the door, and okay, you weren't expecting to cuddle but some acknowledgement might be nice-and he stops.
He turns to Dean. "Do you like her?"
"Yeah, Sammy." Dean smiles at Sam like he makes the sun rise (which, for all you know, he does.) "She's a good one."
Sam turns to you and breaks into a smile, and it's the most astonishing thing you've ever seen. He's beautiful. The Antichrist has dimples. "Come back," he says. "If it doesn't take. Come back around and we'll give it another try."
It takes you a moment to reel in your rampaging thoughts and answer. "Yes. Yes. Of course."
And even after Sam's turned and left the room, his smile stays with you, and suddenly you understand why some humans choose to follow him. Why they'd follow him anywhere. And then you think, goddamn. A son or a daughter with those dimples. Beautiful. Powerful. Commanding.
Dean's grinning and relaxed after Sam leaves, like he's just engineered a successful blind date and is congratulating himself on his matchmaking. Before you go home you have a warm shower and a hot meal-you could really get used to that-and listen to Dean, all business again, rattle off instructions about pregnancy tests and prenatal vitamins, about moving your family to the hotel for safety if this attempt takes.
Dean's still saying if, but you already know, with a quiet certainty. You'll be the one to bear Sam Winchester's heir.
And as you walk home, past the plastic bag still circling the parking lot, glancing at the dark storm on the horizon, you know something else. Sam will win. Someday, those clouds will dissipate. Your child will look up into a clear sky.