A/N: I promised that all heck would break loose today. This chapter was 20 pages long, with plenty of hell in each one to spare, so I'm posting both today.

Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.


Chapter 14 – come into my parlor

Thursday night…

Cal Grissom knew he was screwed.

Sure, he wobbled a little as he stood up and pushed himself away from the table. He'd spent a lot of time at Rae's Tap Room, knocking back beer and hard liquor, but no matter how toasted he got, he could always tell when someone was watching him.

Like now.

He burped noisily as he slipped a ten out of his pocket and flung it down on the floor. The two dudes sitting at the table over on the left very pointedly stopped staring in his direction as he wheeled around and made his way to the door.

He heard the scrape of wooden chair legs as they both got up at the same time. Fucking amateurs. Some perversely calm part of Grissom's mind had already named the short one Heckle and the taller one Jeckle.

Grissom also knew he was going to get mugged.

That was the way things had been going lately. Sour. Working at Sweetbriar just wasn't fun anymore. Grissom wasn't sure, but he thought it might have started spiraling down the day Beck's green eyed freak showed up. That business with Withers was some freaky damn stuff, and talk about stupid, that was McCandless groping Beck's kid like that.

Dumb bitch. Grissom liked the female nurses just fine; they knew their place. The talk in the wards was that Beck never should have hired that manly looking bitch. Beck was slipping. Beck was losing his touch.

The buzz in Grissom's head lightened up a little when he hit the cool night air. He laughed to himself, a short, gruff sound. Wasn't like they were going to get a lot out of him. He had another ten in his wallet, his IDs and his credit cards. Payday was tomorrow, Friday.

He laughed again. If you'd waited one more day, you assholes, you coulda gotten it all.

He could have just handed his wallet over, but it was the principle of the thing. There were two kinds of people in the world: those who get screwed, and those doing the screwing. Grissom was determined to be in the second group. Man had to draw the line somewhere.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder from behind, and Grissom knew he was too drunk when he turned around and a fist slammed into his face, hard enough to make his knees wobble. One of the muggers slipped his hand inside Grissom's pants pocket, going for the wallet, naturally, as the other one held him by the arms.

"Hey! What are you sonsabitches doing?" someone roared. The taller mugger, Jeckle, turned in the direction of the Good Samaritan, and he was promptly surprised by the fist the man planted in his face. Heckle let go of Grissom's arms, and everything stopped.

Just like that.

Grissom barely felt the ground underneath his knees, but he realized that Heckle and Jeckle were hightailing it across the parking lot. Something lay on the ground a few inches from his hand. His wallet. His fingers shook as he picked it up.

"Bastards," the Good Samaritan spat out. "Gettin' so a man can't even take a fucking drink in peace. Hey, buddy, you okay?"

Grissom nodded as the dude knelt down beside him. Everything went tilt-a-whirl for a moment, and then Grissom was able to concentrate on the man's face underneath the overhead lights. He was an older guy, dark haired, with fairly heavy stubble, and hazel eyes that flashed with a dangerous glint. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the fact that he'd just been saved an ass kicking.

It was love at first sight for Cal Grissom.

"Mister, you just saved my ass," Grissom muttered.

"No problem. You wanna go back inside, call the cops?"

"Nah." Grissom shook his head. "I need another drink, though."

The other man laughed. "I imagine so. Okay." He took Grissom by the arm and helped him up.

"By the way, my name's Calvin Grissom."

The Good Samaritan nodded. "Name's Elroy McGillicuddy."


Sam's scars itched, but they didn't hurt anymore. If he closed his eyes he could see them, red and jagged, a starburst pattern carved into the thin skin over his left hipbone. On one level he counted himself lucky that Lim hadn't marked him where everyone could see. Sam knew luck had absolutely nothing to do with that.

Sealing the deal with Lim hurt like nothing Sam had ever felt before. Sam was no virgin, but he felt like one. Lim pushed him open from behind, filled him almost to bursting, and when it came inside him Sam nearly screamed out from the liquid heat and the white hot pain.

The lifelines in the palms of both hands seemed faded somehow. He didn't notice that until much later.

"I wonder if your brother knows how much you really love him," Lim murmured softly in Sam's memory. The demon stuck its long, mottled blue tongue out and licked a stripe up the side of Sam's neck. "Remember, boy. Your love for him won't change my final price. It stays the same."

Sam nodded, and Lim grinned widely as he pulled out of Sam from behind.

"You taste so good, Samuel," it whispered into his ear. "I will save some for later then."

Sam lay curled up on his side in the grass. His face was wet, his eyelashes thick and gummy with tears. His cock ached; so did his ass and his lower back. He laid there with his legs folded up to his chest, his arms wrapped around his knees, until the muscles in his arms and legs stopped shaking, until he could no longer hear Lim's laughter, and all Sam could think of was Dean.

He won't want to be around me after this.

"Uh, Earth to Sam. Come in, Sam," Bobby grumbled softly.

Sam blinked.

"Don't know where you were just now, boy," Bobby muttered, "but I can tell it wasn't a happy place." Bobby didn't say "Do you want to talk about it?" He knew with Sam he didn't have to.

Sam shook his head no.

Fair enough. They sat in the darkened Chevelle on the parking lot of Rae's Tap Room and watched John Winchester walk back into the place with Calvin Grissom.

The Fletcher twins crept up to the passenger side of the Chevelle. The younger boy, Clyde, snickered a little as he opened Sam's door and pushed his way into the back seat. Sam didn't even blink as he was pushed face forward into the dashboard. First Clyde muscled his way in, and then his brother Emmett did the same.

"You ladies having fun yet?" Bobby drawled.

Emmett settled back against the bench seat and scowled. "No." He rubbed at the bruise on his left cheek, then good-naturedly poked Sam in the shoulder. "Your daddy nailed me good."

"Uh huh," Sam muttered.

All four men watched as the door to the Tap Room swung shut. "Well," Bobby sighed. "Sam, you can show up at Sweetbriar tomorrow morning looking for a job. We'll set up the phone lines when they call for a reference." Bobby glanced at the Fletchers. "You boys did good, setting all this up. Nice job."

Clyde beamed proudly. "Well, Daddy wouldn't have survived that hunt if it hadn't been for Dean. When Mr. Winchester called us we figured we had to help."

Bobby nodded "Appreciate it." He cast a sideways glance at Sam. Kid was too damn quiet. He wasn't always this…rude. Bobby couldn't read him, right now, and that was worrisome.

About an hour later John Winchester stood on the parking lot and watched Cal Grissom get into his battered old pick-up truck and drive off. When he turned around, John smirked. It was a triumphant, happy expression, as good as Dean's smirk had ever been on a really good day.

Bobby grunted.

John sauntered over to Sam's side of the Chevelle and leaned down. "Got him," He said smugly. "Dumb bastard gave me his card, said I had a job at Sweetbriar if I wanted it."

Sam nodded. He looked at John, and he kept his mouth closed. Sam didn't say what he really wanted to say, not in front of Bobby or the Fletchers: "What's…what's gonna happen after we get Dean back?"

Sam could imagine John giving that careless shrug of his. "Depends."

"On what?"

"Depends on how bad off he is."

Sam could imagine his mouth forming the words, "I need to know if you're going to hang around. If you're going to stay with him." but he didn't, because he knew John would pick up on it then. John would know what Sam didn't want to say out loud: You need to be here with Dean, Dad, because he's not gonna want me around after this.

Why?

That question Sam did not want to answer.

A large silver Ford F150 truck pulled into a front space on the other side of the door. A tall man wearing a battered brown leather jacket got out and sauntered for the door.

Sam blinked. This dude reminded him of Dad. He was a younger version, right down to the dark brown hair and the stubble.

Clyde Fletcher grunted. "That's Beck."

Sam's eyes narrowed. "Nathan Beck? From Sweetbriar?"

"Yeah." Emmett nodded. "Teddy the bartender pointed him out to us." Emmett rolled his eyes. "Teddy's a dumbass."

"Okay." Sam put his hand on the door latch. John stood back and growled as Sam opened the door and stepped out. "Sam, what the hell are you doing?"

They were in deep shadow on their side of the lot. Beck didn't even notice the men or the Chevelle. He jingled his keys as he pulled the door open and walked inside.

Sam smiled tightly. "Gonna go in there and introduce myself."

John nodded.


Beck could always pick out the likely ones, and this kid certainly qualified. He was a tall drink of water, broad-shouldered, with shaggy dark brown hair blue green eyes.

The kid walked up to Teddy and ordered a beer. Beck sat at at the counter and and watched. This one didn't order one of those wimpy ass special drafts. He was drinking good old American beer, nice and foaming, straight from the tap. The cuff of his tan jacket rose up when he slid that ten bucks over to Teddy. That was when Beck noticed the raised scar on the young man's arm. It wasn't a suicide attempt; that would have been over the wrist. This was on the diagonal, looked like a defensive wound.

Beck could appreciate that.

That hard glint in the kid's blue green eyes got even harder when he saw Beck staring. "Take a picture, sweetheart." Oh yeah, that throaty growl rattled Beck's spine. "It'll last longer. You think this is bad? You should see the other guy."

Beck felt heat flare up in his belly. He wanted to fuck this kid. Right here, right now. He could see himself pushing this one face first into wall, he could imagine licking and biting that broad back. Lately, John Doe 317 had Beck's undivided attention. Show John a red pill, a devil's sunrise, and he'd practically sit up and beg like a good little bitch.

John was a fun little puppy. It wasn't that Beck was getting bored with him. That wouldn't happen until they carried 317 out in a body bag. The unlucky sonofabitch wasn't going anywhere, after all, but there was something to be said for variety. It was the spice of life. This kid looked like he was a challenge, but doable. Worth the trouble to tame.

When Beck told Teddy to break out that bottle of John Walker Black and two glasses, the kid actually smirked a little.

They went over to a table in the corner, and Beck didn't miss the way the younger man moved, with agility and strength. The invitation to the dance was slow and measured. The boy gave up his name twenty minutes into the conversation: Sam Wesson. Forty five minutes later, Sam Wesson walked out the door with Nathan Beck's business card, and the promise of a job at Sweetbriar State Hospital in the morning, if he wanted it. All he had to do was show up.

If there was one thing Nathan Beck prided himself on, it was having control. Beck leaned forward and as he passed the business card across the table he couldn't resist putting his hand between Sam Wesson's legs and squeezing his cock like a shopper at a supermarket squeezing an orange.

Wesson leaned into the touch. He didn't even flinch.

Ten minutes later he was up and out the door.

Yeah. Definitely fuckable.


His girl had something on her mind. Abraham could always tell.

"All right, Missy," Pa rumbled. "What is it?"

He glanced in the rear view mirror. Lee and Jerry were directly behind in the other truck. From the stiff, upright way Lena McCandless sat on the seat between them, Pa guessed that Lee and Jerry had kept their hands to themselves, for a while at least.

The dumb bitch still thought they were going to let her go after this. Pa should his head in amazement. Too damn stupid to live.

Maybe it was the lights on the highway overhead, or the night shadows playing on the planes of her face, but Missy looked really young, almost like she did when she was thirteen. "I want a baby, Pa," she whispered softly.

Pa nodded. It was probably past time for this conversation. Nothing had come from all that fucking she and Gabriel had been doing for the past four years. He knew what was coming next, but he wanted to hear her say it.

"I want a baby."

Abraham nodded. "Okay. Once we get Gabe home, we'll go into town and pick out one you'd like."

Missy shook her head. "No. Not like that. I want Gabriel's baby. I want…We could get one of these bitches out here, couldn't we, Pa? A younger girl, maybe? I want Gabriel to fuck her. For as long as it takes. And I want to keep the baby that comes out." She shrugged. "It won't be all mine, but it'll be half his."

Abraham smiled. "Sure. We can do that, baby girl. We sure can."

Missy leaned back against the seat, snuggled underneath her blanket, and closed her eyes.

Pa slowed the truck as he turned onto the ramp for the highway. Sweetbriar was still hours away. His expression darkened as he glanced at Lee and Jerry in the rear view mirror. They wouldn't like the idea of Gabriel having two women to fuck. That might be a problem, but it was their own damn fault.

Kid's nowadays didn't have any gumption, the old man said. Lee and Jerry could have brought a woman or two home themselves, could have kept her locked up in the barn or the basement, but they didn't. Instead they bitched and moaned like babies when somebody took away their bottles.

Truth to tell, Pa was kind of proud that Missy had even thought of this. She was definitely his baby girl.


The second part of this chapter follows this one.