Renegade Pt 3

Author: Linda Atkinson

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean/John

Rating: FRAO

Warnings: Total AU. M/M sex. Violence. No one is related to anyone else so no Wincest. This story takes place in a world were the supernatural is a "normal" part of the world. Dean is a FBI Agent with the Paranormal Enforcement Division. Sam is his partner and a psychic that uses his powers for the bureau. John is an aging prostitute (and for the purposes of this story I changed John to JDM's real age of 40), who is also a witch.

Bill Elliot sat at his desk, nervously eyeing the phone. Jack Carter had sent a car load of men to Trask Street to stake out Winchester's apartment, but the man never showed. In fact, it was as if all three men, the two agents and the whore, had just up and disappeared. Carter was not amused, and Elliot could understand why. Both men had been partners in the LAPD ten years ago. They both had been trapped in stale marriages and dead-end careers when Elliot had been called in on the biggest case of his life, the Maxfield kidnapping case. Ultimately it had been Elliot's idea to call John Winchester in to summon the spirit of the dead mobster, but Carter had side-lined him, and brought up making a deal with a demon to advance their interests.

Elliot glared at the phone. He had placed a call to DC as soon as he had gotten in this morning trying to find out where Morgan and Bennett had been assigned quarters. If he was very lucky the younger agents had stayed put waiting to hear from the home office themselves before going in with Winchester and the tape. Somehow Elliot didn't think so. Morgan didn't seem like the sit and wait type, and even if he was younger Bennett had an air of quiet competency that was dangerous and deceptive. He had absolutely no doubts that both young men together were a force to be reckoned with. And he was in the unenviable position of being the one to do the reckoning.

His phone rang; he had had the call directed to his personal number instead of the switchboard. He picked the receiver up and made a few minutes of pleasant, nonsense conversation with the idiot on the other end before getting down to business. "The Marriott Hotel on Broadway, you mean the one near the West Coast Plaza. Yeah, I'll get in touch with them right way. Thanks, you don't know what this means to me."

With an aggravated sigh Elliot called Jack Carter again. The other man answered as if he had been waiting for the call. "They're at the Marriott; it's pretty open for your men to try to get to them, provided that they are even there any more."

An hour later a black Cadillac Escalade pulled up in front of the Marriott with three men and a woman in it. The men were all large, dressed in plain black suits with suspicious looking bulges under their coats; the woman was small, older with faded brown hair and the prim look of an old maid. She touched the door to the elevator and winced. "They were here; they caught the elevator several times last night. First to check in, the two younger men alone, one non-magical the other a psychic; the second time they came they had another man with them, older--a magic user." She slumped against the door rubbing her brow. One of the men slid his hand under her arm to support her. She went rigid. "Please Mr. Marcus; you'll interfere with my visions. I'm quite alright. Let's go up to the room."

The men followed her into the elevator. She went ahead pausing intermittently to touch the wall or an object in the hall. Finally, she stopped in front of a door. When she placed a hand on the door it swung inward, revealing a large and empty suite. With a frown she moved deeper into the room. "They were here, but the room is cold. They've been gone a long time. I don't know how much residual energy I can read, but I'll try."

Marcus and the other men waited by the door, wary of coming into the room while she was trying to read it. She shook her head. "Whatever plans they made they didn't make them here. I can get a bit. The older agent…Morgan is it? He was angry, and violent with the older man—the witch. They left in a hurry."

Marcus grinned, "Hostile to the witch, maybe Morgan will just kill him."

Suddenly she went to the window looking down on the side street. "There was a car, something big and black. I don't know what kind, but its old not a modern car, and not something that they got from the FBI lot; I think it belongs to Agent Morgan."

Sneering Marcus leaned against the wall pulling a cell phone out of his pocket. "A big, black, old, car, that's a whole lot to go on, Shirley." He punched in a number. "Yeah boss, the psychic broad thinks that they left last night, the room's cold but she saw a car. She doesn't freakin' know. Okay, we'll be there in about fifteen."

Turning to Shirley he smiled, "The boss needs you to come to his office. He's got some car books, and he wants you to look at pictures, see if maybe you can spot this big, black, old, car."

Jack Carter's office was in the Sanyo Bank Building on the 33rd floor. It was a huge corner office with an entire wall of glass that held a stunning view of the city of Los Angeles. Far off in the distance Shirley could see a news copter circling the intersection of Main and Figueroa, and she thought it was probably a bank robbery. Carter wasn't in the office when Marcus led her in. He went to the side board, and opened an ice bucket plunking several cubes into a crystal highball glass. He splashed a generous portion of whiskey into the glass then turned to Shirley. "Hey, you want a drink, lady?"

She shook her head, frowning. Marcus seemed awfully free with the boss's booze. She watched as he casually scarfed down the expensive whisky and went back for more. With a huffed breath she leaned against the desk and was hit by an image of Carter, trousers around his ankles, with the bigger man behind him. "So that was how it was," she thought to herself.

A large photograph on the wall caught Shirley's attention. It was vulgar and in extremely poor taste, but it drew her in. She studied it, letting her mind wander over the curves and lines of the automobile, ignoring the blonde draped over the hood with her legs spread. A small gold plaque was pinned to the frame just below the photo. It read, "1967 Chevrolet Impala." The color was wrong, it should be black not red, but Shirley's hand brushed the glass tracing the chrome on the hood. A blinding white pain hit her mid-forehead heralding a premonition…some future event.

The sky was as black as the paint of the car. The only light was the pale blue glow of moonlight and the warmer golden glow of the interior car light back-dropping the silhouettes of two men. The Impala was parked in the shadows of several large trees, the front doors were both open and music was blasting out of the interior, filling the night. The two figures in front of the car were Dean Morgan, his face bathed in the glow of the interior dome light cutting through the windshield and another man whose face she could not see. The other figure was propped against the hood of the car, his jacket half fallen off his shoulder; tee-shirt rucked up under his arms. His head was back and Morgan had his face buried in the other man's throat, saliva gleamed on pale skin surrounded by dark stubble. The figure turned his head just enough for Shirley to see it was Winchester. Morgan's shirt was opened, un-buttoned down to his waist, and his trousers were down, although she couldn't see his hips since John Winchester's right leg was propped up on the car's bumper, his thighs spread around the younger man's body. Morgan was thrusting hard enough to rock the entire car and Winchester's head rolled back as he cried out…

Faced flushed Shirley snatched her hand away from the photo as if it was molten metal. She turned to Marcus offering him a small shrug. "I don't think that Agent Morgan is angry with John Winchester any longer."

************************

Sam was stretched out in the rear seat of the car. He balanced a laptop on his knees opening the files he had downloaded the night before, in one of the many cheap motels they had been staying in the past two weeks. He leaned forward as much as the computer would allow, knocking several fast food wrappers to the floor. He winched. "Dean, we need to head east, to a little town called Jerome, Nevada. I have noticed that there is a pattern to the killings that our perp has been involved in. It's a widening concentric circle spreading out from Los Angeles to a clockwise direction. The killings occur every year, twelve to the year, and move in an outward spiral."

"A search pattern?" Dean asked, looking in the rearview mirror at the younger man. Sam nodded, holding up the computer.

"Yes, a search pattern, as if the demon is looking for a specific child or children. Some of the cases reported finding the remains of the infant in the crib, in all of the cases one or both parents are kill, and the houses burned. But in a number of the cases the infant's remains were presumed immolated in the fire. I think it's searching for all the children born on November 2, 1996. It's killing most of them, but I think it's taking a few for whatever reason."

John flinched, "My son was born on November 2, 1996, he and my wife, Mary, were killed in a fire and the house burned to the ground. They never found Chris's body. There wasn't much left of Mary either."

Sam cocked his head, leaning over the seat. "Was your son gifted?"

John nodded reluctantly. "He was only six months old, but yes; they think he was a telekinetic."

"That fits," Sam said. "I've check med records for all the children whose remains were not found at the site, all of them had some magic related gift—witches, psychics, telekinetics. All the dead who were recovered were non-magical."

John sighed; he felt his breath hitch and Dean glanced over at the older man. Quietly, he took his hand off the wheel, slid it across the seat and grasped John's fingers. John curled his own fingers around Dean's palm, letting his thumb stroke the callused flesh.

Trying to shake the somber mood in the car John sat forward, motioning to an exit on the highway. "If we're going to Nevada can we go by Area 51 and see the aliens? They'd let you guys in, right--since you're FBI?"

Sam gave John a look, raised his eyebrows, and said. "There are no such things as aliens, John. Area 51 is a test facility for experimental aircraft nothing more."

"That's what they want you to believe. They have that ship that crashed in Roswell, and they have those three aliens frozen in kryptonite."

Dean ginned, "Carbonite…"

"Yeah, see, he knows." John said motioning to Dean, who just shook his head. Sam reached over the seat and whacked the other agent on the back of the head.

"Don't encourage him. There are no aliens, John—none. Just B-2 Bombers and Stealth Fighter planes." Sam said gruffly. "With all the demons, vampires and other nasty things we deal with aren't you satisfied? We sure as hell don't need aliens in the mix, and if there were they'd probably try to beat our heads in or stick something up our asses."

"Welcome to my world." John said with a sigh. Sam glared at him.

Jerome Nevada.

Sam groaned as he unfolded his lanky body from the backseat of the Impala. He stretched then dragged his computer out of the car, tucking it into its black case. Dean shook John awake. He tossed Sam the keys and he popped the trunk, unloading their stuff. They were staying in yet another cheap motel, the three of them living in close quarters, sharing one room; always Dean and John in one bed and Sam in the other. He had finally gotten wise to the fact that Dean always put him next to the window, and therefore, first in the line of fire and bitched long and loud about it. So they varied the bed assignments. John always cast a protection spell on their room, and set devil's traps on the floor by the door and windows. Sam wondered how much ruined carpet and how many pissed off hotel managers they had left in their wake, considering the dye that John used to draw the traps was permanent.

The Best Western they checked into was a little better quality than they had found in the fleabag hotels they had been using, And Sam felt a little better. He dragged his gear out of the trunk. They sat about doing the mundane tasks that needed taking care of, and considering how they all smelled laundry was first on the list.

The room was bigger than usual as well, with a large glass window, Sam frowned. "Liability number one," he said. Dean shrugged.

"It's all they got. John can fix it." Dean said hitching thumb at the older man. Sam still looked annoyed.

"He can fix it as far as paranormal beings go, but not mobsters. Don't forget Elliot probably has Jack Carter's men out beating the bushes for us. A bullet can come through a protection spell."

John looked up. "I can do one that can keep out a bullet, but you have to get the blood of a virgin, it's inviolable, hey--I don't make up the rules. And I don't need a lot, a few drops will do."

With a wicked grin Dean said, "Here Sam, just stick your finger with the point of my knife, he just needs a few drops."

"You're so amusing, Dean." Sam retorted. John looked appraisingly at the younger agent; Sam cut him off with a rude gesture.

"Do not even go there, witch."

After lunch they sat around the table in the diner, Sam pulling up newspaper articles on the laptop. "There were seven fires here; all in 1996 it took out almost half a city block."

Turning the laptop Dean scanned the article. "That's the most that we've seen since the initial fires in LA. Does it say how man infants were involved?"

Shaking his head Sam frowned. "No, and I can't find any archival work either. I guess we have to do this the old fashioned way. I'll take the news paper. You and John can have the cemeteries. There are three, I wrote down the addresses."

Dean groaned, "Why do we get the cemeteries? Do you know how long we'll have to walk around reading headstones?" John glanced over at him and Dean took the slip of paper Sam held out. "We have to drive from cemetery to cemetery and read through the head stones checking ages on all the children we find. We need to make a note of all those who died in 1996 and if they died when they were six months old then check them against the names of families whose houses burned. It's a long process. Sam'll go through the newspaper archives and make a list of names and addresses of the families who were involved in the fires. Its part of the grunt work, but it has to be done."

"Why do we get stuck with the cemeteries?" John asked. Sam smiled at him, pulling his jacket off the back of the chair.

"Because you two were being so bitchy to me."

It was just after six p.m. when Dean and John climbed out of the Impala and crossed the road to the Spring Hill Cemetery. The tall wrought iron gates were still propped open but there wasn't another person in sight. The sun was beginning to dip behind the low foothills just above the neat, green expanse of the graveyard. Across the newer part of the cemetery with its flat bronze plaques was a smaller area surrounded by a low brick wall. Dean walked through the newer graves flashing a light onto the names. "These are all Military graves probably the National Memorial Park we read the sign for out on the highway." John nodded. With a sigh Dean motioned him to the older part of the cemetery.

They hopped the wall, and ended up beside a grave with a granite marker that had a lamb carved in the top of the stone along with the inscription "Little Lamb." John bent down excitedly motioning the younger man over. "This is it," John said. "This entire area is for children."

Brushing the dirt away from the inscription John knelt down and copied the child's name, birth date and date of death from the headstone. "He's too old, almost a year. You know I've always had this thing about graveyards, they creep me out."

"You get used to it in our line of work. Most of the time the dead can't hurt you, it's the living you need to watch out for. But once in a while the dead come back with a vengeance, and it's usually me and Sam they're trying to kill." Dean bent down scraping the dying grass away from a white marble stone. "John, here--Lisa Heddley, November 2, 1996." He waved his hand and John passed him the pad and pen.

"This one too, Dean…Kyle Pruitt also November 2, 1996. That's the last of the seven Sam mentioned."

"Well, that gives us enough to start with anyway…" Dean's head came up, and he shoved the pad at the other man. John jerked around, eyes scanning the horizon. Slowly Dean reached behind him and pulled the .45 tucked into his waistband.

Across the neat rows of markers something moved. The reddish clay piled around one of the military graves began to shuffle and slide. The clods bouncing down the mound, and skittering across the yellowing grass. As the clay shifted, a pair of grimy fingers appeared in the hole, then the clay burst outward and a hand groped the air.

By the time Dean had pulled John behind him, and stalked to the wall the zombie was half out of the grave. Whatever had killed the guy had been messy, Dean decided. The zombie's face was half torn away, one eye bulging above the rough gray meat of a dissected cheek. The other eye was missing, and the zombie cocked his head. He lurched to his feet turning slowly toward the two humans standing by the wall.

Suddenly he erupted into a long-legged gallop charging the wall with a twisted grimace on his face that was half-way between fury and glee. His loping stride brought him across the cemetery and the wall in a few seconds. Gathering his energy the zombie made a jump for the wall--teeth gnashing.

Dean raised the gun, cocking his head slightly he snapped off one shot. The gun's recoil sent his arm back into John's chest and he stumbled. Terrified John pushed back, arms cart-wheeling to keep his balance and propel him into flight if necessary.

But it looked as if fleeing was not necessary. Dean's shot caught the zombie mid-forehead and what was left of his brains blew out the back of his skull. He sank to the ground limbs still twitching with preempted momentum.

"Holy shit!" John muttered. "I thought they were supposed to be slow."

Dean smiled grimly, "Yeah, a lot of people think that. It's why they usually die.

We need to salt and burn the remains. You stay here and keep a look out. I'll go get the salt canister, the gas can and some shovels."

John huffed, "You're shitting me. I'm not staying here alone with that thing."

"It's dead now." Dean said stiffly. John shot him a look.

"Yeah, and it was dead when we got here too, but that didn't stop it."

In the end John refused to stay alone or go alone, so both he and Dean made the trip to the car and back. It took only a few minutes to salt the sagging corpse and set it alight. The body burned with that special odor only dead human flesh could emit, and John looked half nauseous by the time the fire burned down. Dean and he shoveled the ashes back into the grave and begin replacing the clay. John slammed a big pile of ashes into his part of the grave and sneezed, inhaling a face full of zombie. He spit and Dean grinned at him.

"I think that technically makes you a cannibal."

John did not look amused. By the time they had the grave settled the sun was long gone. They dragged the shovels, salt and other material back to the Impala. John was twitching with unspent energy, and Dean was flushed and sweating more than the physical labor warranted.

They set out on the road back to town.

The sky was as black as the paint of the car. Dean pulled the Impala into the side road letting the distance between them and the cemetery slip away. He drove for several miles before he could no longer stand the silence, and flicked on the radio. John looked pale and ill in the passenger side seat, a smudge of ash decorating one cheek. He glanced over at Dean tugging the seatbelt off. Nervous energy jangled his body, and John unbuttoned his jacket, letting is fall loosely at the sides. "Is that how it always is when you kill them?"

Dean shrugged. "I try not to think about it much afterwards, but yeah. It's never easy. And sometimes I feel…it makes me." His voice faded off. John closed his eyes letting his hand drift down to his crotch. He absently rubbed the prominent bulge in his jeans. He didn't even have to look to know that the front of Dean's jeans was tented as well.

"God, stop the car. I can't…this is killing me. How do you deal with it, the way you feel after?"

With a shrug Dean whispered. "I usually find a warm body, and then I just work it out."

Leaning over the seat John let his fingers trail down Dean's leg, sliding across the fly of his jeans. "I'm a warm body. Pull over…

"Here in the middle of nowhere. You want to christen the back seat?"

"Not exactly," John hissed. Dean pulled the car over into the shadows of several huge old oak trees. John pushed the passenger side door open, stopping briefly to crank up the volume on the radio. Dean was out of his door, unbuttoning his shirt as he went. He let the front of the shirt gape open, and starting working on the buttons of his jeans. When he met the older man coming around the front of the car he caught John by the waist pushing him against the hood of the Impala. John half fell across the hood his jacket falling off one shoulder, shivering as the cold metal came into sudden contact with his heated skin. Sliding his hands into Dean's hair, John pulled the younger man down for a kiss. His tongue slid over Dean's lips and Dean opened to him. Grunting Dean slid his hands under the curve of John's ass, and lifted him bodily up onto the hood of the car. John toed off his boots and slid his jeans and boxers down and off, dropping them onto the ground. Dean managed to get his fly unbuttoned and pushed his jeans down to his knees.

John found if too difficult to stay on the hood entirely, so he slid forward leaving his hips propped on the hood, with one foot on the ground and the other on the front bumper. Dean stepped between John's legs. Pulling a foil packet out of his pocket, Dean rolled the condom on, "There's some lube on it, but it might be a little dry."

"It's okay, believe me, I'm ready. I've been damn ready for days now."

Dean caught John's hand and wrapped it around Dean's hip then he leaned forward, and thrust in. John was tight, and he winced a little, but otherwise it was sheer nirvana. John let one of his hands slide down Dean's hip to catch the chrome grill. His fingers slipped around the vertical strut, sliding up and down. Dean cocked an eyebrow at John and slipped his own hand down, catching John's fingers. His own fingers rode John's and they stroked the chrome together, in time to Dean's thrusts.

The chrome became a living thing under the rhythm of their hands. John could feel his heat combined with Dean's warming the metal, making it a malleable extension of themselves. As he stroked the chrome, Dean felt the metal vibrate under his hand as if the car was humming. He was almost certain he could hear the thrum of the big engine, he gasped sure that the car could run on pure testosterone. John's fingers became frantic under his, stroking the chrome as if he could make the car come. Grasping Dean's hip with the other hand John muttered under his breath, and the car rumbled to life.

Dean jerked his head back when the engine turned over, he grinned at the other man, and John wrapped his hand around Dean's neck pulling him into another kiss. Dean pulled back nuzzling John's neck, running his tongue through the fine, sharp stubble on his throat. Finally, Dean's sharp white teeth nicked the flesh of John's shoulder. He bit down, and thrust up at the same time. Pinned between the hot breath and sharp teeth and Dean's equally hot cock John's head rocked back, and he shouted Dean's name like an invocation.

Dean felt and heard, more than saw, John come. The wet warmth that spread against his chest sent him over. He dropped his hands, to John's hips lifting him up and slamming him down, and came--face buried in John's neck.

John drew a deep shuddering breath, and slid back to lie down on the hood of the Impala. "God, I love this car."

TBC