The knife twists again, and John can feel his flesh splitting. He bites back a scream; he's not going to give this fucker the satisfaction. Besides, it's not like he's a stranger to pain. He can handle this. Just breathe through it. Breathe, and don't let this sadistic freak see how bad it is.
"Johnny," Alastair murmurs, and John flinches.
"Fuck you. No," he spits through broken teeth, knowing the bastard's just going to ask the same thing he asks every day. No matter what Hell throws at him, no matter what they put him through, the answer will always be no.
"I haven't even asked you anything yet, Johnny," the demon replies, running his hand over his selection of tools before pulling out a branding iron. "See, here's the thing. My... superiors, they think I'm too soft on you. You're a hunter, John Winchester; you can handle pain. So here's what I'm going to do – I'm going to show you your boys."
John pulls against his restraints. "You fucking touch them – you do anything to them – and I swear to God–"
Alastair grabs his jaw and squeezes; John can feel the bone start to give way. "No need for that sort of language, Johnny. I'm not going to lay a finger on them. I don't need to. You destroyed your sons all by yourself."
John tries to close his eyes, block out the voice, only to find his eyelids tapered open. "You son of a bitch," he hisses. "I love my boys! I would never–"
"You love them?" Alastair cuts in silkily. "Oh, Johnny, I know you love them. And they love each other, don't they? They'd do anything for each other? In fact, they're completely dependent on each other for everything. You did that, Johnny."
John stares at him, trying to decipher the meaning behind his words through the dull fog of pain. "Of course they rely on each other – they're hunters. They're lucky like that. Some of us don't have anyone else."
The demon laughs. "Oh, Johnny. You just don't get it, do you? Here, let me show you." He forces John's head around to face the blank wall in front of him, and locks him into place. With his eyes forced open, there's now no way John can look away from... whatever it is Alastair is planning. Whatever he's about to see, John knows it can't be good.
The wall shimmers, and a black spot appears in the middle, widening until the whole wall is covered by the image of a motel room. John watches fearfully as the door opens, and two figures enter. It's his sons, he realises immediately, although they're covered in muck and grime and something unspeakable. They look exhausted – dragging their feet and moving painfully slow. Still, Sam salts the door and windows as Dean takes first shower, and when Dean's finished and Sam moves into the bathroom, Dean orders pizza.
John's confused. Okay, the lifestyle of a hunter is a bitch on the arteries, but he can't see anything horrendous going on here. Alastair, seeing his bewilderment, smirks.
"Just keep watching, Johnny," he says – as though John has any other choice.
Sam's in the bathroom a long time, only stepping out when there's a knock on the door. Dean takes and pays for the pizza, and the two sit on the bed and tuck in as though they haven't eaten a decent meal in a week – which, chances are, is probably true. Dean's wearing sweatpants and is shirtless, while Sam still has his towel slung low about his waist. The two rib each other, fighting over the last slice of pizza, who has to clean up... just as they have been for the last twenty years or so.
The demon and the hunter watch as the brothers toss the pizza boxes in the sink, grab a beer, and curl up on the bed. Sam snakes his arm around Dean's waist, pulling him closer, and still John doesn't understand. It's not until Sam starts nuzzling his brother's neck, licking and biting, and Dean starts moaning in response, that John finally gets it.
"No!" he roars, pulling at his restraints. But he can't move his head, or close his eyes, and even when he tries to avert his gaze the picture just seems to follow him. Alastair laughs, low and mocking.
"Do you get it now, Johnny?" he says quietly. "Your boys, they have no one but each other. For everything. You did this to them, John Winchester. Your kids are fucking each other, because of you."
"No," John whispers, tears streaming down his cheeks. "No, they can't... I didn't..."
"They can, and you did. Now shush, the best part's still to come."
John has no choice but to watch, horrified. Dean rolls over onto his back and stretches in satisfaction as Sam leaves a trail of wet kisses down his torso, eventually reaching the waistband of his pants. He hovers, grinning, waiting for Dean to tell him to "hurry the fuck up already!" before whipping them off, letting his towel fall to the ground at the same time.
John will be the first to admit that none of the Winchester men were ever afforded privacy, but still, this is something he never wanted to see: both his sons, hard, aching and needy; for each other, no less. He can only watch in appalled fascination as Sam crawls back up the bed, taking a bottle out of the bedside drawer. He whispers something in Dean's ear, and John sees his oldest son shiver in delight and anticipation. He feels sick, yet he wouldn't look away even if he could.
Sam slicks himself up, slow and unhurried, like they have all the time in the world. Then he turns his attention to Dean, slipping a finger in, then two; stretching, scissoring. John doesn't have a lot of experience regarding gay sex, but somewhere hovering beneath the disgust is the inkling that Sam's taking care of Dean. The knowledge makes him proud even as he doesn't want to believe that any of this is real.
Dean's moaning now, demanding, and Sam complies; sliding into his brother in one smooth stroke. They're both lying on their sides, as close as they can get, and Sam reaches forward to stroke Dean's cock as he moves inside him. John just watches – what else can he do? – as his sons move closer and closer to the edge.
Dean goes first, a strangled "Sammy!" escaping his lips as he lets go. Sam follows right behind, almost as if he was waiting for Dean's pleasure before allowing his own. Sam slips out of his brother slowly, and the two of them don't bother cleaning up – they just kiss, and fall asleep in each other's arms.
The picture fades, and John realises he's sobbing so hard he's shaking. "My boys... my boys..." he whispers, broken. Alastair smiles.
"That was a pretty vanilla night for your sons, Johnny. All in all, you got off easy." He begins to gather his tools, not bothering to contain his amusement at the sight of John Winchester, broken over his sons' incestuous gay love.
"This worked better than any blade, Johnny. I think we'll have to do this again sometime," he says, finally releasing the head and eyelid restraints. He walks away as John crumples forward in pain.
"I'm sorry, boys. I'm so sorry..." he whispers into the never-ending night.