Author: Linda Atkinson
Warnings: AU goes through some events in “Devil's Trap” and “In my Time of Dying”, but John does not die. Gender Swap (John); slash (Rape) John/Demon Dean; Slash and Het John/Dean; M-Preg (John pregnant.)
Dean shivered grumbling under his breath. The early morning air was cold, and the cemetery was damp—they were always damp. He was never sure if it was cold and damp because they built the cemetery there or they had built the cemetery there because it was cold and damp. He fumbled the gun he was carrying into the other hand and blew warm air on his palm. Dean hunched down in his jacket a little bit further. He stared down at the freshly turned dirt on the grave at his feet. Across the line of graves and just a few yards away he could see Sammy huddled over against the wall of a small mausoleum. He was seated on the marble walkway surrounding the building feet resting on the sod of the older graves just adjacent to the walk. His shot gun rested across his knees.
Farther down and diagonal to Sam was the bulky form of their father. It was still too dark to make out his features plainly, but Dean could see the shot gun he carried resting lightly on one thigh. John's fingers were tapping a staccato beat against his other leg.
Dean signed. This was the third night they had spent camped out in the graveyard. Since the first reports of grave robbing and mutilated corpses had surfaced on the news they had been coming to the cemetery each night. John maintained that it was just a couple of garden variety ghouls. Only the first two bodies had disappeared from the morgue so now they were looking for four of the nasty little bastards instead of two. Dean shuffled around again. Ghouls were carrion eaters, haunting graveyards looking for the graves of the newly dead. They were an off-shoot of zombies, but quicker and smarter. He wasn't particularly concerned about the ghouls; they rarely attacked the living, unless the living happened to attack them first.
A sudden movement caught Sam’s attention and he looked at John. His father was sitting upright now, shoulders rigid. John had hunter's ears, and if he was scanning the horizon it meant he had heard something. Sam glanced over and Dean was standing up also scanning the grounds. Something was coming. Sam rose to his feet raising the gun. He pressed his back against the wall of the mausoleum cocking his head. There was a snuffling sound from the rear and to the right of his position. He jerked his gun toward the sound. Dean caught the movement and nodded fading back behind a large tombstone a few feet away from the new grave.
Two figures appeared on the dirt path leading from the wooded area beyond the gate. They were short, bent, long fingers twisting almost constantly. Sam caught a whiff of something unpleasant. He frowned revolted. God, the thing about ghouls was the smell. His stomach rolled.
The two ghouls stumbled past him heading toward the fresh grave and the scent of the newly interred body inside. Dean slid back watching their shambling advance. The ghouls paused heads cocked. They were somewhat sentient and could sense, if not see, the humans nearby. But live human flesh held no interest for them, and they chose to ignore the scent in favor of the tantalizing aroma of meat beneath the ground.
Sam stepped out of the cover of the mausoleum and flicked the safety off the shot gun. He leveled the gun and moved to squeeze the trigger. Suddenly, a figure shot out of the shadows, hitting him squarely in the back. Sam‘s arm bent and the shot went wild, hitting the tombstone sheltering his brother. Dean shot him a look, but jumped out raising the .45. He snapped off one clean shot, hitting one of the ghouls in the chest. It shattered sending a wave of decomposing blood and flesh over Sam. Grunting Sam raked the graying sludge off, retching at the odor.
John saw the ghouls coming up the path behind Sam when his youngest son stepped out. He uttered one quick cry then hit the ground running. The bulky shapes of granite grave markers slowed his progress as he dodged around them. Dean’s first shot took out the ghoul closest to Sammy and John sighed. Raising his own gun he drew a bead on one of the ghouls advancing on Dean. The second ghoul whirled around leaping over the tombstone and coming at John. The creature was fast, faster that he had anticipated, and still more human looking than the two ghouls that they had killed. This one must be one of the new ones, one of the two mutilated bodies infected by the original ghouls.
Her fingers raked out at John, and his ankle twisted as he dodged the blow. He stumbled but regained his footing before the ghoul could strike out again. Dean turned torn between Sam and his father. But Sam was holding his own, clubbing the fourth ghoul with the shot gun and sending it sprawling to the ground.
Taking a breath Dean raised the .45 and brought it bear on the back of the ghoul, but she was jumping around, jerky movements bringing her too close to his father. If Dean shot at the ghoul and missed, the shot would hit John.
John was cussing a blue streak, whether at his twisted ankle or the ghoul, Dean couldn’t tell. John hobbled backwards and slammed the shot gun across the ghoul’s face. She went down and Dean finished her with a single shot. Blood and gore splattered his father and John growled at his older son. Dean lifted an eyebrow and grinned. From behind him he could hear the final gunshot as Sam put down the last ghoul.
Sam was grumbling under his breath when he came up to the fire pit Dean and John had dug in the woods a few hundred feet behind the tree line. He dragged the body of the last ghoul up to the pit and tumbled it in. John tossed rock salt onto the last body, and Dean began washing them down with gasoline. Sam picked up the second gas can, and splashed the contents onto the pile of decayed flesh. When he was satisfied that the ghouls were covered well, Dean dropped the gas can onto the ground, and lit a match. The pile of bodies erupted into flames. Sam ducked his head. “Uh, dude, I thought these things stank when they were alive, but man they really stink when they’re dead.”
John looked up from the fire pit at his younger child. “They weren’t alive, Sam.”
“You know what I meant.” Sam muttered frowning at his father. He diligently scraped the ghoul blood and tissue off his clothes and slung it into the flames. It sizzled brightly. Sam frowned again. Dean edged closer to his younger brother. He sniffed experimentally.
“Dude, you’re really rank. You’d better get that sh…” he glanced at John. “Crap off. I’m not letting you in the car if you don’t.”
Sam glared at him. “Why don’t you tell Dad he stinks, too? He’s got just as much crap on him as I do.”
“He can’t walk home; he has a bum ankle.” Smiling Dean edged closer to Sam dropping his voice into a stage whisper that he was sure that John could still hear. He threw a companionable arm over Sam’s shoulders apparently no longer offended by the odor. “Besides I’m planning on getting laid tonight.” Dean said just to see Sam squirm. He wasn’t disappointed.
John slapped Dean’s arm off Sam’s shoulders, and grunted. “Yeah, plan again.”
When they got back to the Impala, Sam stripped off his shirt turning it inside out. He still smelled, but at least none of the goop would rub off on the seats. Dean silently pulled the car into the road and headed for the apartment. As the tail lights flashed briefly in the distance, a lone figure crept onto the road, eyes gleaming in the darkness.
John was drifting in a haze, just on the edge of sleep, when he heard the bathroom door bang open. Sam had showered and gone to bed after he and Dean had finished stowing the weapons in the trunk of the Impala, bringing in the guns they wanted to clean later in the morning. He felt, as well as heard, the soft tread of Dean’s bare feet whispering over the carpet in the hallway. The footsteps paused by the bedroom door receded then came back again. He almost hoped they would keep going. But the bedroom door swung open. The footsteps quickened as if Dean was afraid that John would throw him out. John held his breath as the bed dipped, and a warm body slid in behind him.
Dean came awake sweating heavily. He was blanketed in his father’s body, John’s legs and arm slung over the younger man’s chest and thighs. Dean twisted managing to free his legs; John snorted and rolled onto his back. Dean looked down at the older man, and then rose up onto his knees staring. His father looked different. Gently he reached out turning John’s face so that he could get a good look in the soft late morning light coming in the window. John had shaved a few days earlier so he had only a couple of days of stubble, not the full beard Dean had become accustomed to, but even so Dean could see that the gray that normally streaked his father’s facial hair was absent. The beard stubble was softer and fully brown.
Turning John’s head again Dean noticed that the thinning spots at both of his father’s temples were filled in again and the gray that shot through his hair was gone replaced by golden highlights. John’s skin was clearer, the seams and lines not as deeply etched.
“Holy, shit!” Dean gasped hoarsely. John came awake with a start rolling over to grab for the gun on the night table. He missed the gun and slid off the bed landing in a heap beneath the window. Dean choked back the laughter bubbling in his chest, and leaned over.
“Dad, you okay?”
John glared. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”
“No, sorry about that, it’s…just. Have you looked at yourself lately?”
John huffed out a breath, shot Dean look that clearly conveyed that he thought his oldest son was losing his mind and sat on the edge of the bed. “What are you talking about? I look at myself every morning, why?”
“No Dad, you don’t really look. Come over here to the mirror.” Dean stood up, completely oblivious to the fact that he was still naked, motioning for his father to follow. John reluctantly went along with him. They stood in front of the dresser Dean facing the mirror and John facing Dean. Finally, Dean shoved John around. “Look, you’re younger.”
“I’m not younger…” John stopped transfixed by the image in the mirror. The man standing next to Dean no longer looked old enough to be his father. John gaped at the image of his younger self. “I’ll be damned.”
Dean slid his hand up John’s arm tilting his head to one side. John followed the movement. Dean finally asked, “Do you think this happened in the cabin, or do you think you’re getting younger all the time?”
“Hell if I know. I never noticed. We’ll just have to keep an eye out. I hope that Sam can come up with something at the library.” John shrugged as if there was no point in worrying about something they couldn’t do anything about anyway. Smiling Dean slid his hand down his father’s arm, and brushed his fingertips over John’s ribs. John flinched. “Don’t even think about it, Dean.”
Dean’s grin widened. John didn’t sound angry so much as he sounded pissy meaning that Dean had a lot of leeway in this particular situation. It had always amused the hell out of Dean that John Winchester, the great demon hunter, could be felled by the mere application of fingers to ribs. He dug in, and John spit out a curse. John popped the heel of his hand into Dean’s solar plexus, not hard enough to do any damage but enough to hurt. The breath whooshed out of Dean’s body in a grunt. But he dodged the blow enough that it didn’t knock him down. He stepped up and under John’s arm, getting his fingers under the older man’s armpit and tugging on the dark curls of hair. John grimaced. “That’s a dirty blow. You shave yours.”
John managed to pull free at the expense of a little body hair, and kicked his foot into the back of Dean’s knee. Dean went down then, but he maintained his grip on John’s arm, and his father went down as well.
Dean tried to roll, but John had the physical high ground and fifteen pounds on his son. Dean ended up on his back with John’s knee pinning one of his thighs in place. With a grunt Dean reached up and jerked John’s boxers down. John just shrugged and smiled rising up enough that they slipped down to his ankles.
“I’ve fought bare-assed naked before. Don’t think that’ll stop me.”
John rocked forward slamming Dean’s wrists to the ground and pinning his hips between John’s knees. “You’ll have to do better than that, boy.”
Dean planted his feet firmly on the ground and tried to buck the older man off. John pinched his knees tighter against his son’s side, and Dean grimaced subsiding, with a grin John dropped onto Dean's body, and then froze when he realized that Dean was rock hard. Taking a breath John considered his options, he could let Dean win, but something about that really irked him; so he went for the kill. Spreading his legs a little he rocked letting the full length of Dean’s dick slide through his warm cleft. Dean gasped. “Now who’s fighting dirty?”
“Hey, remember what I always told you--maximize your advantages, and use what ever you’ve got.” With a grin John slid upward just to watch Dean squirm. He smirked at his son, then rocked backwards and forwards a few times, but froze again as the head of Dean’s cock slipped inside him. Dean could sense John’s hesitation, and quickly seized his father’s hips before John could move away. Dean pulled down and back and immediately he was fully sheathed inside John’s body. Steadying himself with his hands on Dean’s shoulders John muttered. “I don’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay, just ride me.” Dean slipped his hand between them grasping John’s dick. His father blossomed beneath his hand, and he groaned. John used Dean’s strokes as a guide and fell into a steady rhythm that was sheer nirvana.
They were showered, dressed and eating pizza when Sam got back from the library. He dumped the books he was carrying on the table and helped himself to a slice eating out of the box instead of going for a plate. He scarfed down the pizza and grabbed a bottle of beer taking a long swallow. Finally, he said. “I think that I found something. It’s a ritual performed for the Egyptian goddess Bastet the protector of the home and pregnant women, at least as close as I can figure. The priests used this incantation on girls being married off by their fathers in arranged marriages. It’s to make sure that the bride performs her wifely duty in the sack and conceives an heir.”
“I swear to God, if either of you so much as cracks a smile…” John leaned forward glaring at both his sons. Dean reached out taking his father’s hand, petting him.
“I wouldn’t think of it…honey.”
The fingers of John’s other hand clenched on the bottle, and Sam got ready to duck. Just in case. He glared at Dean. “Cut it out. You know what, Dean? You don’t have a free ride in this thing either.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
Sam shuffled around in his chair and dragged one of the books over. He skipped through the pages. “The spell was created by priests in a patriarchal society so it was made to favor the man…ehr…husband. But Bastet equaled the playing field in favor of the women. The male can’t…perform… with anyone else and in a society where men could have multiple wives it made the incantation pretty rare.”
John took the book from his youngest son glancing through the pages Sam had marked. “So how do we counter it?”
Sam shrugged. “It doesn’t say. As far as I can tell you can’t, but it should fade a little--in time. You won’t die, but you’ll still need sexual activity regularly or you’ll be pretty miserable. And even if you break the spell the physical changes won’t go away. That’s a whole new story--a transmogrification spell, heavy duty black magic. And the only way to counter it is to bathe in the blood of virgins and perform a few other rituals, all equally nasty--at least for the aforesaid virgins.”
Dean took the book as his father put it back on the table. “You said this Bastet was Goddess of the home and pregnant women, so isn’t she a good goddess?”
“She can be, but she has a nasty side, too. She wiped out a lot of the Pharaoh’s army when he pissed her off. I know that the spell was often used by older women who couldn’t have kids; it was supposed to have rejuvenating effects. There's not a lot about that though. And that reminds me, she’s also a fertility goddess so you should be…careful.”
“Careful?” John echoed. Sam nodded.
“Yeah, if the female is of childbearing age, pregnancy is pretty much guaranteed.” Sam pointed to the relevant passage in the book. “Childbearing age meaning twelve to forty-five years.”
Sam didn’t miss the uneasy glance that Dean and John traded. “But that only talks about women, what about men. Is there any record of both these spells being used on men?” Dean asked.
“Yeah, and you’re not going to like it. The few supposed accounts of the spells being used in conjunction did pretty much what it’s done to you. There isn't any real information available after that. Dad, it looks like you're stuck the way you are now, at least for a while, until we can come up with an alternative way of breaking the transmogrification spell. And for the thing…you know with Dean, it’ll get better but for now you two just have to—do it pretty regularly, and be careful."
John shrugged, "Even if the spell did knock off about 10 years, I'm still around forty-two. It's pretty unlikely that anything would happen."
Dean sighed. "Yeah but didn't Grandma Jo get pregnant with you at the same time that Aunt Maggie got pregnant with Jack?" John sighed nodding; he was the youngest of six kids and was exactly three days older than his oldest sister's son.
Sam thumped the book down on the table again, and grunted. "God I knew it, we are the Brady Bunch from hell!"
John settled back against the pillows. He balanced a book on his chest and looked around as the door swung open. Dean was standing in the hall. John sighed, and then motioned him into the room. Noting John's expression Dean asked, "Am I bothering you?" He settled on the foot of the bed. John shook his head.
"No, it's not you, it's this whole thing. Dean I need to ask you what did I do when you were growing up that made you feel this way about me. It's not normal."
Lying down beside John, Dean huffed out a breath. "Dad nothing about our lives has been normal since Mom died." He glared at John. "Why is it so hard for you to accept that you didn't do anything? That I'm just made this way? You were a good father—not great sometimes, sometimes the best dad a guy could have. You did the best you could with the situation that got dumped on us. And you know what's not normal—a family burying a three year who had the blood sucked out of him by a vampire or a bitch ghost that rips people's eyes out of their heads or maybe a demon who kills women and burns up their house and cripples their families with all the shit they have to deal with. Dad, that's not normal. I don't give a damn what any of those people outside say. They call me loving you this way abnormal. But we deal with stuff that is so wrong, so twisted, that they don't even want to believe it exists. We're all we have, just the three of us."
"Yeah, but Sammy doesn't feel this way about me. Why do you?" John closed the book, and jumped, startled when Dean stroked his shoulder. John rolled over hesitated just slightly and bumped up against Dean's side. Dean draped his arm over John's chest, both of them lying back. "When did you first start thinking about…this?"
"Dad, can't you just give it a rest?' Dean sighed. His mind flickered back to that day in the hotel room when he was twelve, but if John heard that story he'd go ballistic and then he would definitely blame himself and call the whole thing off. So Dean hedged his bets a little. "Right after Sammy left for Stanford."
"That biker gang that was a pack of werewolves?" John asked. Dean shook his head.
"A little after that--the Geists." Dean shuddered a little at the thought, and in a few minutes he felt John's jaw tighten as his mouth drew up in a thin line of distaste. John sat up, pushing Dean off his chest. "I remember…"
Dean stood in the shadow of the rock wall surrounding the pasture. He could see his father just a little farther up the path. The trees were thick and very little moonlight penetrated the underbrush, but the twilit sky was still filled with the last thin rays of light from the streetlamps just beyond the cemetery gates. Suddenly, John paused and Dean drew himself up eyes scanning the horizon. Just across the thin expanse of the little cemetery two hulking figures were stalking them. Dean smiled and raised the gun.
The Geists were slow, stupid and remarkably easy to kill, but they also stank to high heaven. In fact the billowing clouds of yellow gas that gushed out of the dying creatures were so noxious that Dean's stomach was roiling as they salted and burned the bodies. The vapor surrounded them permeating their clothes, skin and hair.
They made it back to John's truck before his father bent over and vomited up everything he had eaten for dinner and half a thermos of coffee. Dean stood back trying not to look, but as soon as John made that horrible retching sound Dean gave in and puked, too.
They had to stop three times on the way back to the motel and by then the truck was so filled with the odor of Geist blood and their vomit that they had to practically hang their heads out the windows.
Dean kicked open the door stripping off his jeans and shirt as he entered the room. John shamelessly stripped naked on the landing and tossed his clothes in a pile on the cement walkway. Dean passed his clothes out and John dropped them in the pile.
"Get me a plastic bag; I'll wash these after I get cleaned up. You hit the shower, but hurry I don't think I can take this smell any longer." John said. Dean retrieved a plastic garbage bag and handed to his father.
The shower was fairly large considering how small the room was. They had even had to resort to sharing a bed. John had bitched, at great length and very loudly about that, but the clerk had told them in no uncertain terms that no other rooms meant "no" other rooms. The warm water felt good and Dean picked up the bottle of dishwashing detergent that contained lemon juice they used for washing after a hunt. Because John had discovered early on that lemon juice was the only thing that took the scent of decomposing flesh off. Dean lathered up and scrubbed. He heard the door open, and the smell hit him right away. John paced the bathroom floor. Dean could hear John retching again, but it sounded like nothing came up. Finally, John raised his head and snapped. "Dean, are you almost done?"
After a minute John pushed the shower curtain aside. "Shove over, I'm coming in." He wriggled past Dean and ducked under the stream of water. Dean nudged his father in back and poured a dollop of the dishwashing soap into his hand. John began lathering his body, scrubbing until his skin was pink. Dean poured more detergent in his hand.
"Bend over, Dad. I'll get your hair," His father shot Dean a funny look, and Dean mumbled, “It’ll get you out of here faster.”
John had obediently dipped his shoulders and Dean's long fingers worked their way through his thick curls. Finally the air seemed clear and both men uttered a sigh of relief. John offered Dean a smile, cocking his head at Dean's glum expression. John looked at his son's rigid posture and swung Dean around, his eyes scanning Dean's body for injuries. Then he had pulled up short, face going crimson. Dean cringed.
"It's okay, son. Fear will do that to you, and the adrenaline. It's nothing to be ashamed of, hell, it happens to me too, sometimes. I'll just go, so you can…take care of that."
Suddenly John sat up in bed. He could tell Dean was thinking the same thing. "I should have never got in the shower with you." Dean dropped his head on his father's shoulder and thumped it hard a few times. John stopped him with a half-hearted shove.
"Dad, let's go over this one more time. I did not get a hard-on because you got in the shower and it gave me ideas. I already had the ideas to begin with and that caused the hard-on when you got in the shower."
John sighed. "I'm sorry about all this. If I hadn't gone after the demon we wouldn't be here right now."
"And maybe Sammy would be dead, maybe worse than dead. No looking back, Dad. So we just deal with this like anything else."
John glanced at the bathroom door then nervously paced the length of the kitchen floor again. He paused tapping his fingers against the calendar on the wall one more time. He counted each day carefully, until he came up six weeks. Since weeks since his rude awakening, six weeks since he had discovered exactly what having functioning female reproductive organs actually entailed. John groaned the smell of the coffee in the pot made his stomach roil. Panting a little he ran to the big double sink and vomited a thin stream of yellow bile into the stainless steel basin. Quickly he ran the hot water to wash it away. Six weeks, fourteen days past due. A sinking feeling settled in the pit of his stomach.
Sammy came out of the bathroom and glanced at John. "Hey, Dad, are you feeling okay? You look a little rough around the edges."
"I feel a little rough around the edges. I think I'm coming down with something."
John agreed. Sam narrowed his eyes, his father would never admit to feeling ill unless he was half dead already. Sam rose staring into his father's eyes. John flinched.
"Dad," Sam said with a worried frown. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing, don't worry about it. Just a touch of the flu or something." John shifted, and Sam sniffed the air experimentally. He caught the fait odor of vomit in the air.
"That's the forth morning this week you've thrown up. I think that it's a little more than a touch of the flu. I'm going to the drug store, wait for me, okay?"
Sam was back in fifteen minutes. He was carrying a plastic bag with several white boxes inside. He fished one of the boxes out of the bag and opened it up. When he turned to John he was carrying a small plastic stick about the size of a dinner knife. He handed the stick to John. "Here you need to take this into the bathroom and pee on it."
John looked doubtfully at the stick. "Pee on it? The whole thing?"
"No…here." Sam took the stick and pulled one end off so that John could see white paintbrush-like bristles. "Here pee on the end where the bristles are. Then put the cap back on and bring it to me."
When John got out of the bathroom he handed the stick back to Sam. And Sam consulted the back of the box. He looked dismayed, no John corrected, he looked horrified. After his third trip out of the bathroom John was sulking. "Look I can't pee another drop so this had better be it."
Sam waved his father into a chair. "It doesn’t matter. They're all the same. All positive, so I'm pretty sure…"
"Pretty sure what?" John asked, and Sam looked up at him with a grim expression. John felt his stomach roll again.
"Dad, you're pregnant."
John had never fainted before, so he wasn't sure if the white haze was his vision fading or not. Sam's face seemed to float behind the soft pale light, and the world tipped slightly. He was grateful that Sam caught his shoulder before he fell completely out of the chair. "Dad, I'm going to go get Dean at Bobby's. Just stay still and we'll be back in forty-five minutes."
Dean burst through the front door just ahead of Sam. Both young men were out of breath as if they had run from the parking lot up the stairs to the apartment. The living room was empty. Sam’s laptop was hooked up to the printer sitting on a writing desk, but it was off. He touched the computer and sighed. Sam turned forgetting the computer for the moment.
His brother was stalking the hallway looking into all the rooms. He disappeared into the bedroom John had been using, and then slammed the door behind him. “If you two got in a fight. If you blamed him for this, Sammy I swear…”
“We didn’t get into a fight, Dean. And I don’t blame him for this, I blame you.”
Dean grabbed Sam’s arm, but his brother jerked away. “What the hell? You think I wanted to get possessed by the demon, do you think I wanted all this?”
“It’s pretty evident that you wanted Dad. And you got him. Without any consideration for what might happen to him or what he might want.” Sam settled on the back of the sofa, and Dean scowled at his younger brother.
“What do you mean without any consideration for what might happen to him?”
Sam dropped his head. “I wanted Dad to tell you, but he’s gone and I think he might do something bad. Dad is pregnant, Dean.”
“Pregnant?” Dean sucked in a deep breath, and for once Sam could see all that damned self-assurance melt away. Dean looked lost. Sam felt a tremor run through his body. He reached out, but Dean slapped his hand away.
“You left him here alone? Knowing he might do something, you left him here alone anyway. How stupid can you get, Sam?”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the one who got him pregnant, Dean. Let’s not forget how you fit into this equation.” Sam snarled grabbing the front of Dean’s shirt. He slammed his older brother back against the wall, leaning in--face dark and wet with sweat. Dean worked his fists into Sam’s jacket and jerked. Sam over balanced and went down hard. Both men froze when Dean’s cell phone rang. “Yeah?”
A soft, accented voice carried to his ears. “Dean, you and Sammy all right?”
“Missy?” Dean asked, and Sam hurriedly stood up. “What’s wrong?”
Missouri’s voice was tinged with deep concern, and Dean tilted the cell phone out from his ear a little so that Sam could hear her as well. “You boys have got to stop this nonsense. Your Daddy needs you now. He’s planning on doing something terrible.”
Sam turned away, moving to the computer. Worry creased his face, and then he spied several crumpled balls of paper in the trashcan. He grabbed them and unfolded the pages. With a gasp Sam hurried back to Dean and shoved the papers into his hand. Dean glanced down and almost dropped the phone.
The title of the article held in Sam’s hand jumped off the page, and Dean felt his knees go weak. The pages were simple text with illustrations in dark lines. ‘Self Induced Abortion.’ Sam took the phone.