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Jonas frowns at the yellowed pages in front of him. It doesn't make sense. It’s stupid; he doesn't like it. It’s hard to focus on reading when the material he's been asked (forced) to study all just feels like nonsense. He sighs as he slides a hand down one freckled cheek and groans as he thunks his chin into that same palm, leaning on the desk like he wants to fall face first into it. Jonas can't focus. He can barely see straight after staring at such tiny print for so long—how many hours has he been here? Three? Ugh.—and truth be told, he doesn't think he's absorbed any of it. Dean is going to kill him.
It's not like he wanted to be a priest. It was never his dream—it was Dean's. Just another way of controlling him. When he was younger, Jonas had been sure it can't get worse, but lo and behold, it did. He wasn't even religious! How was he supposed to do this job efficiently at all? Jonas slides the crusty old bible away from him and lays his head on the desk. At least he got a nice office; even if it was tiny, cramped, and claustrophobic, the view wasn't awful. It’s a jail cell, basically, but… Man, he has to hold on to something.
As he sits there, with his cheek pressed against old oak and his arms dangling loose beneath him, his eyes drip idly over one of the many bookshelves taking up his already limited real estate.
On God and the Teenage Soul.
The Many Mercies of Jesus.
Damnation is a State of Mind.
Each title he reads is more cringeworthy than the last.
Basic Exorcism.
Protecting the Home from an Assortment of Daemons.
Really? There was a for-dummies style book on exorcism? Jonas lets himself chuckle a little bit.
Compendium of Demons.
Shake the Hand of No Man: A Guide to Avoiding Devils.
All right, this is just getting silly now. He closes his eyes and sighs again as the slightly-mildewy scent of his desk washes over him. Outside, birds chitter and chirp on the branches by his window; inside, the clunking of the ancient air conditioning system is trying to drop a beat. He's alone. Dean has gone home for the day, and the parish is locked, leaving just him and his books. Jonas pushes himself up and slides his bible—one of many editions, all of them as old as the church itself—back into its place on the dusty shelves. His gaze drops back down to the collection of tomes on demonic entities, and he smiles a bit. It's a petty and useless revenge, sure, to read unholy material instead of the bible verses Dean had demanded he memorize, and yeah, he’s going to get an earful for it later, when Dean realizes he still doesn’t know Sodom from Gomorrah, but for now… Oh, heck, why not? It's not like any of it’s real, anyways. And it’s probably more interesting. Hopefully.
Jonas plucks the nearest book off the shelf—titled “Let the Wrong One In: How to Know if Your Children are Dabbling in Black Magycks”—and flops back down into his chair. He cracks it open to a random page and begins to read.
Children enamored with rebellion and Satan may attempt to summon him into their homes and bedrooms, enraptured by heathen fantasies their now-warped minds have absorbed from dangerous places, such as the internet, and convenience store pornography.
Jonas snorts. Oh, this is gonna be good.
Be wary of mint and aloe leaves, of random twigs in unnecessary places, and any blood you may see in your home. All may be signs of an attempted summoning. Simple spells are much easier to cast and conceal, and you must know the signs to find your child's hidden Devilry before it's too late.
The book went on like that for ten chapters, and Jonas inhaled every single one. How could he not? It was hilarious. So many mundane things were listed as possible “satanic triggers” that Jonas could barely stop his giggling. Cell phones? Color cartoons? Historical documentaries? God, this book was a goldmine of laughs. By the time he was done with it, he felt a little better. And, okay, maybe a bit rebellious and daring. Now he kind of wants to try one of the supposed summoning spells listed in the book (posted in their entirety and followed by a “Christ Counter” incantation), just for laughs.
He wipes the tears from his eyes and drags a piece of loose leaf paper out of one of his desk drawers, along with a red pen, then sets to trying to copy out the circular sigil on a particularly funny page. Beware of this sign, as it may mean lower-class daemons are hiding in your home. Yeah. Suuure.
“So, paper, a match… two candles…” He puts each ingredient just-so on his desk, now cleared off of all its clutter. “Mm... Animal blood?” Heck no. There's no way he's going to chase down and then hurt one of the rats in the parish walls just for a stupid fake ritual. His own will do just fine, he's sure. What's the difference?
“And then… Uh, yikes.” How were Latin vowels pronounced again? Well, he supposes it doesn't really matter. Who was going to be grading him?
Outside, it had finally gotten dark, and the wind had picked up. Perfectly ominous. Jonas chuckles to himself as he imagines what it would be like if this actually worked. Would he be roped into selling his soul? How awful. He pushes a lock of dark hair out of his eyes as he settles back and tries to figure out how to say the incantation.
“Sub nomine eo…rum? Qui se abs…con…derant in umbra tua suppliciter petent…es.”
Whatever that meant. Were priests supposed to know Latin? Jonas sure doesn't. He waits a moment as the wind howls outside, rattling the window in its frame. It’s definitely spooky, but… nothing happens. He’s almost disappointed—thanks, fiction lag. Jonas closes the book and reaches out to grab the paper to throw it away, when—
“Ow!”
It had…burned him? But it wasn't—isn’t—on fire. Jonas sucks his finger as he furrows his brows at the rumpled page, only to find himself nearly shocked out of his skin when he sees that the seal he had drawn has begun to glow like dying embers. His eyes rocket wide open. No way. No way? Jonas reaches cautiously towards the page again, but before he can touch it, it explodes.
Kind of.
It’s more like a sudden gust of warm wind had blasted the page and the ritual setup from below, knocking it all into the air, where it now hovers a few feet above him. It all swirls together in a violent circle, trying to coalesce into one solid shape. Sparks and embers fly out around the mass as the fire that had started in the ink begins to turn into one big floating bonfire. Jonas scoots his chair back, scared and wary and kind of super not fond of the idea of getting burnt properly—like, to a crisp.
No way.
There is no possible way this is real. He must have fallen asleep while reading. This must be a dream.
Jonas can't peel his eyes away from the fire. It’s bright and uncomfortably hot and what's more, it seems to be… forming something. He claps a hand over his mouth when it hits him— It’s a figure. A person—or a person-shaped thing, at least. The bonfire warps and bends and flickers into shapes like limbs—awkwardly long—fingers, a head—and things poking out of that head, curving disgustingly—
Thud.
And then Jonas is face to face with, well. A face. Long and wicked, with dark grey skin and an ugly smile curled up his face to show off uncomfortably sized triangular teeth. It has hair, slicked back and brown, and, flanking that, deep red horns that curve out and then back in, kind of like a broken halo over his head. Long arms are tipped with clawed hands, and his shoulders sport spikes the same colour as his horns.
This… is a demon? Jonas can barely peel his gaze away from the red-orange glow of his eyes, but when he does, that gaze rockets right back up—the demon is naked. Oh geeze.
“Well, lookit you.”
Jonas practically flies back out of his seat. For some reason, he hadn't expected it to talk. Stupid in hindsight, but he also hadn't expected this to work, either. The demon's voice sends chills down his spine and scatters goosebumps across his skin, not because the voice is creepy, but because it's so… normal. It's not multi-layered, it's not a deep and booming drum, it's just. A normal voice. A little bit gravelly, a little bit rough, but normal. And when the demon laughs—which he does, because Jonas looks like a deer in headlights, gaping at him—that too is just… normal? Jonas doesn't have the wits about him to describe it any other way.
“Of all the people I thought I'd see today, someone like you definitely wasn't on my list.” The demon picks a leg up and drops a clawed foot on one of Jonas's armrests. “Whatsa matter, priest? Crisis of faith? Desperate for revenge? I'd ask if you were feelin' bold, but a scared pup like you doesn't look like he's gonna do me any harm.”
Jonas bristles a bit at that. “I'm—I'm not a… dog…” he huffs. He’s finally managed to pull his eyelids back down off of their extra-wide setting, and now he instead glares at the demon.
“Ooh, that's a look, isn't it?” The demon smacks a palm to his chest. “Yer woundin' me, Spots. Cute face like yours, looking at me like that? Shit, dunno if I can take it.”
“What?” Jonas chokes on the word. Cute? There was no way anyone would ever… Much less a—no. No. This must just be a demon thing. That's what they did, right? Temptation and all that.
“Yeah, have you seen yourself?” A disgustingly long tongue flicks out of the demon's mouth to lick his lips. Ew, and it's green? Why green… It's striped too; Jonas thinks it looks like the tail of a snake. “Don't tell me you summoned me all the way here just to boost your ego.”
“No, I—ah!” Jonas yelps when the demon yanks his chair in close. It's getting harder to ignore the proximity to the demon's... lack of attire, at this distance. He knows his face is burning, and that makes it all worse. “I—I, uh…” He swallows. “didn't… think… it would work.”
The demon's head kicks back as he laughs even harder than before, clutching his stomach with the hilarity of it all. “Ahh, shit, that's good. That's real good.” The tears in the corners of his eyes sizzle away.
Jonas huffs, frowning as he crosses his arms. He glares up into those burning eyes, and tries to make himself seem confident, at the very least.
“Damn, you're even cuter when you're mad,” the demon says, his smile softening as he leans back down—close. Too close. “What are you gonna do now, huh? I'm here, you're here…” His brows raise. “Did you think that far ahead?”
“I don't know…” As he's staring up at the demon, something in Jonas's head clicks. He smirks, just a bit. “Something to piss off Dean, I guess. Got any ideas?”
“Dean? The fuck kind of name is Dean? Shit… Lemme guess. Boss? Co-worker?”
“Both. Also, adoptive father,” Jonas says. He's ready to scheme, and that's somehow cleared away all the fear.
“Nasty,” the demon says.
Jonas laughs. He entirely doesn't know why, but it's quickly becoming pretty easy to talk to this guy. He's not even human! And yet, somehow, he's not scared anymore. Just a bit flustered, due to the uh. Clothing situation.
Jonas closes his eyes to lean back and sigh and say something else, but it all gets lost in his throat when he opens his eyes again and sees that the demon is basically on top of him. He wonders distantly when his freckles are going to start burning off his face—his cheeks are a sizzling red.
“Uhh—”
Before he can get words out, the demon says, “You're really cute—you know?” again. Is he... Does he look a little bashful? Crap. Holy crap—is this demon flirting with him?
No. No way. It's temptation. He's supposed to resist that.
Jonas flinches when the demon touches his face, but it's a touch so gentle that he can't help but release all of his tension into it. He's doing real good on that resistance front so far, for sure.
“You wanna stick your middle fingers up at this guy pretty bad, huh? I think I know… A really good way to do that.” Oh, gosh, his voice is downright seductive. Jonas gulps. The demon continues, “Maybe you, and I… should…”
He can't help it. His eyes bounce back down below the demon's stomach again, then back up. Yeah, Jonas is pretty sure he catches his drift. He breathes in and purses his lips.
And you know what? To hell with it. He never wanted this job, anyways. Why should he care about his holy duties? Jonas sets his jaw. He's going to make a bad decision tonight, he knows, but he's ready.
He's pretty sure he's ready.
It's just. Well. He's kind of never done that before—sex, of any kind, not just sex with a demon—but definitely not sex with a demon either, and… oh. He's. Even closer. Jonas's brain is shorting out and all he can do is just watch as the demon—his cheeks are so red, is he really blushing?—gets closer, and closer, and then—
The demon is kissing him. He's kissing him and Jonas is a puddle more than a person. He feels warm all over, inside and out—is this normal, or a demon thing?—and Jonas has a vague sense that they're moving but he doesn't resist. He can't resist. Not with the way that tongue is wrapped around his, not with the way the demon's hands are cupping his cheeks, and definitely not with the distinct feeling of the demon's erection pressing up against his belly.
Oh no. He wants this.
Jonas gasps as his eyes fly open and he puts a hand on the demon’s chest to still him. Somehow it shocks him that the demon actually does stop and pull back. “Wait...! Wait...” Jonas says, breathing hard. “I’ve—I haven’t done this before, I don’t—I don’t even know your name.”
“Well, if you really need a name to moan that badly, you can call me Mitch,” the demon says, his expression oddly soft.
Jonas immediately bursts into uproarious laughter.
“Seriously?” he asks. Now it’s his turn to wipe tears from his eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a demon name to me.”
“Aw, c’mon, Spots, don’t be racist. Fuck. What did you expect, Mitchelzebub? Mitchellphegor?” Jonas just laughs harder, and in time, Mitch’s annoyed pout fades into a somewhat embarrassed smile. “Shit,” he mumbles. He braces against the top of Jonas’s chair and looks down at him, admiring him as the priest works his way through his giggles.
Jonas can hardly believe it when he’s finally calmed down enough to look back up at him. Mitch’s smile is so soft; his glowing eyes are so gentle. There’s no way... But is there? He can’t help imagining what it would be like, having a demon for a friend. Would he protect him from Dean? Would he help him get out of his personal hell? Or would he drag him into one that was even worse... Jonas swallows hard. His soft lips part; he wants to say something but doesn’t know what.
“Bet you’d look amazing, bent over that altar,” Mitch says, and it’s right about then that Jonas notices they’re not in his office anymore. They’re in the prayer hall.
Jonas gasps and his mouth falls once again agape. It’s dark, but they’re surrounded by candles—floating candles!—alight in flame the same colour as Mitch’s eyes. His chair has somehow been moved to the center of the main aisle, looking up to the massive marble altar and the stained glass window beyond it.
He has so many questions. He starts with the one boggling his mind the most: “But—how are you—in here?” Jonas squeaks.
“You invited me,” Mitch replies, casting a devious grin up the aisle, like he’s just conquered a mountain. “I can go anywhere you can go now.”
Jonas shrinks a bit. “Oh...” He thinks he’s supposed to be scared, and he kind of is but... he kind of isn’t? He can’t deny that he feels drawn to this demon much more than he ever felt drawn to his profession, or the church, or religion in general. Maybe it’s because, of the four, Mitch is the first and only one to seem to like him. Even if it’s an act, he wants to hold on to it.
He grabs Mitch’s forearm. “I’ve never...” he starts to say, but Mitch shakes his head.
“It’s ok, Spots,” he says, and Jonas’s heart bursts into butterflies. “And hey, y’know, you never told me your name, either.”
“I'm. I’m Jonas,” he stutters.
“Anyone ever told you you’re gorgeous, Joey?” Mitch asks.
Jonas melts and shakes his head. Please let this be real, he thinks, chest right with sudden desperation.
Please let this be real.
Please—
Mitch’s lips have found him again. This time, Jonas flings his arms around Mitch’s shoulders, and is distantly surprised when he finds that Mitch’s spikes don’t hurt at all. He had, for a moment, forgotten they were there.
“You’re fuckin’ goddamn beautiful,” Mitch murmurs.
This is too much, Jonas thinks. Way too much, but he doesn’t want it to stop. He doesn’t want this night to end, ever. Even if it’s fake. Even if this is the worst decision he's ever made. Even if it’s a dream, or if Mitch is going to drag him down to hell after, he doesn’t care. It’s a nice, comfortable lie, the feeling of being wanted. And sure, maybe there’s a cruel irony in the first person to ever find him attractive not being human, but he’s not thinking about that right now. He can’t, not when Mitch’s warm hands have found their way under his clothes.
No one’s ever touched him there before, on the soft rolls that make up his midsection. He’d always hated them, and the stretch marks that cut through his freckles there, but Mitch was practically worshipping them. Mitch is moving down, away from his lips as he shreds Jonas’s clothing like it’s not even there with the same claws that graze Jonas’s skin without leaving even the smallest welt or mark. Mitch kisses him there: too, on his waist, his hips, his belly; he even sucks little hickies on random freckles.
Jonas doesn’t know what to do. “Please, be gentle,” he whispers, clutching the edge of his chair. God, if Dean ever knew about this… But this is no time to think about Dean.
“Joey, I’ll gentle the fuck outta you if that’s what you want,” Mitch replies from between Jonas’s now-bare thighs. The only thing left on him is underwear, and even that, he suspects, won’t stick around for long. And still, Mitch is worshipping him. He can feel the stubble on Mitch’s chin graze his inner thighs, and he gasps. That’s a new feeling for sure. And more than that, every noise Jonas makes, Mitch looks at him, pauses, makes sure he’s okay. If that’s not gentle, Jonas doesn’t know what is. More and more, he thinks... maybe demons aren’t so bad after all. This one isn’t, anyways.
Every muscle in Jonas's body seizes when he feels Mitch press his face against his underwear. He's mouthing at his groin. Jonas's lip trembles, his hands like leaves in the wind as he pushes his fingers into the band of his underwear. He gasps softly when Mitch's hands cover his, steadying him, calming him, helping him. And still, Mitch watches him, with that smile… Oh, God, what's happening to him? This is starting to feel too easy, too natural—why?
Jonas can barely breathe when Mitch hoists him up, pushing his hips back to nuzzle his nose up under Jonas's balls. That tongue—oh no, it feels good. It's washing across his taint, over his ass—into his ass—and he's moaning and he can't stop, doesn't want to stop, doesn't want it to stop—
Jonas grips Mitch's horns to keep himself from falling. Where or how, he doesn't know, but he feels like he's dangling precariously on the edge of a cliff. He's scared and excited in equal measure.
And then Mitch's tongue is gone, replaced by a deep rumble of, “Wanna fuck you—wanna mate.”
Jonas just nods, jerking his head awkwardly up and down. He doesn't know what to expect, what to do, how to prepare, but—he can trust Mitch, right? He thinks he can. His head is too foggy to do anything else.
It's not long before Mitch has him on his back on, of all things, the holiest place in the entire church. The altar is carved white marble and positively icy but Jonas is so flushed and embarrassed that he barely notices; he can't take his eyes off of Mitch.
He sucks in air and holds it when he feels Mitch's finger pressed up that tight ring of virgin muscle between his legs. His jaw trembles as Mitch circles it and rubs it—so, so slowly. And, just as slowly, he begins to relax. When Jonas unclenches his jaw, the rest of his body follows. He closes his eyes as he feels Mitch's finger start to grow slick and wet, seemingly out of nowhere. That one finger works him open with patience worthy of a saint.
“Oh, god,” Jonas whimpers when Mitch's finger is finally inside of him. It curls slightly and rocks in and out, bit by bit. He can't feel the claw at all, as if it's not even there.
Jonas's breath quickens, and he has to fight not to clench around the long, bony digit.
“Shh, shh. Relax, Joey. Just relax…” Mitch's voice is right by his ear, and on instinct Jonas leans into it. “Ready for another?”
Jonas's breathing jerks and shudders, but still he manages out a weak “Yes.”
“Theeere you go. I've got you. I've got you.” Mitch cradles his head as he talks him through a second finger, and eventually a third—and then they're done with fingers, and it's the thick, slick head of Mitch's cock pressing up against him instead.
Jonas forgets how to breathe. It feels big… so much bigger than three measly fingers, but he wants it more than he's afraid of it. He can't back down now—who knows when he'll ever have this chance again?
Jonas flinches when he opens his eyes and remembers it's a demon about to enter him. Yeah… Yeah, this is real, all right. Those horns haven't gone anywhere. And neither has—oh god—that tongue, once again snaking between his lips when Mitch kisses him.
He moans into Mitch's mouth when he starts to work his way in. It's so big—there's no way—he can't— but he is. His groans get louder and pitch up higher with every inch—every bump and ridge; it's more than he can take, mentally, this feeling—“Oh god, oh god!”—but…
“God's not here, Joey,” Mitch purrs as he hilts in him.
He exhales and holds his position as he waits for Jonas to loosen up around him—and when he does, Mitch starts a long, gentle pull all the way back out, and then all the way back in.
Jonas looks like he's going to lose his mind. His eyes are rolled back, he's drooling, and he's grasping at Mitch's back. His cock is trapped between his belly and Mitch's, where it twitches and shudders as his pre oozes from the tip. This is more—so much more, so much better than he had ever imagined it could possibly be.
His moans echo around the prayer hall, as if to remind him of just how deep this sin goes. Gay sex, in a holy place, with a demon? There's no repenting for this. And he doesn't want to, either. It feels too good to feel guilty. Mitch is such a kind, gentle lover. Who cares if he has horns, eyes like embers, and isn't even the tiniest bit human? He's got more humanity in him than most mortals Jonas has ever met. Truth be told, he never thought his first time would be this nice. It's got him feeling brave—and needy.
“Harder,” he whimpers in the quietest voice he has. “Don't stop, Mitch, please, please…”
Mitch picks up his pace a bit, the slow roll of his hips shifting into gear, but it's not enough. No—not nearly enough. If he's gonna sin, he wants to go all the way.
“H-harder!” Jonas cries, holding Mitch as close as his short arms can possibly allow.
“Mm—fuck—Spots,” Mitch grunts as he starts to piston into Jonas's body. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoes around them, making a perverse melody with all of their grunting and moaning.
Is it wrong to call the feeling heavenly? Probably. But it is. Jonas has never known what full could feel like until this exact moment. It’s exhilarating: the stretch, the distant but pleasurable burn, and better yet, the ridges and bumps on Mitch’s deep red, demonic cock. Nothing can compare. Not that he’s got a metric to go by, but Jonas is preeeeetty sure human dicks aren’t quite like this.
“Don't stop, don't stop, oh god… Mitch—I—!” Jonas's whole body jerks and seizes; his back arches hard, and then his orgasm is splattering in equal measure across both of their stomachs. He can barely hear or see—all he can do is feel, everything, far too much. Mitch doesn't stop or slow; if anything, Jonas cumming makes him fuck harder, and Jonas thinks he's going to die from overstimulation. With one final, hard buck that's sure to leave a bruise, Mitch lurches forward into and against Jonas's body as he cums as deep inside of him as he can possibly get.
Jonas is shuddering and shivering and he's sure he's going to ache so much in the morning but… crap… that felt really good. He doesn't want to go to sleep, lest he find out this really was all a dream, but his consciousness is slipping away. He clings desperately to Mitch—he's so warm—as his vision fades and exhaustion overcomes him.
Please let this have been real.
The last thing he hears before falling asleep is a distant, quiet whisper of, “You're mine.”