Wavering Faith (John x Garcia)

Chapter 1: It All Felt So Real

It was pitch black outside the windows of Father Garcia's car. In the back seat sat John Ward, who was keeping his eyes fixed on the moon above, the only light source other than the bright artificial beams illuminating the side roads they traversed.
John's head was swimming with the events of the past few days. The pride which he felt after slowing the progress of the UNSPEAKABLE and diminishing Gary's power had all faded away now, and the hole that it left was filled with exhaustion, and the gentle seduction of sleep. After all, he had barely rested in days. That wasn't too unusual, as John regularly battled with crippling insomnia, but this was more. This felt...evil. He hadn't felt this way since... He shook his head, trying to force the memories out of his mind. Father Garcia eyed him nervously in the rearview mirror.
After finally coming to terms with Amy's possession, old wounds were reopened as he fought against the influence of the Profane Sabbath and the thralls of the Second Death. It seemed as if every muscle in his body was crying out in pain, strained from traversing the various destinations he had been dragged along to. On top of all this, a debilitating headache pulsed behind his eyes. He let out a sigh, feeling defeated, trapped in his dilapidated body.
The hum of the motor made it all worse. Its monotonous tone mixed with the sound of rubber against asphalt made his eyelids feel heavy. Well, heavier than usual. Before he knew it, his eyes were closing, his breath slowing.
Soon, all he could see was peaceful darkness. It was so calm, and for the first time in weeks, his mind was empty and comfortably numb. With the numbness soon came coldness, and a familiar shiver down his spine. He opened his eyes, straining them to see his surroundings. He wasn't in Garcia's car anymore, but what looked like the center of a black hole. He felt as if there was a heavy blanket placed on his face, so that no light would penetrate, but as much as he groped around, it seemed that he was alone, truly alone. John briefly wondered if he should try to move, to find a way out of this hellish darkness. Then he froze. He could hear shuffling nearby. It didn't sound close, though he would be quickly proven wrong. Abruptly, he felt cold, spindly hands tightening around his throat.
Out of habit, John reached into his pocket for his crucifix, but found nothing. He could feel himself being lifted into the air, intensifying the strain on his neck. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. The air was thick, further restricting his already shallow breathing. He desperately pried at the fingers grasping him, but it seemed to be no use. He was getting lightheaded and weak from the lack of oxygen. He became very aware of the assailants long, curved fingernails as they began to push into his carotids. Tears welled in his eyes as the pressure turned into burning, his skin was being breached. He felt hot breath on his face as whoever it was leaned in. A deep, gravelly voice whispered,

"It's not over yet,

P R E I S T. "

With a squelch, his skin gave in.

John jolted awake, heart in his throat, desperately scanning his surroundings for signs of him...of Gary. "Hijo! Calm down!" Father Garcia raised his voice. Though he seemed upset, there was concern in his wavering tone. "I-I...he..." John struggled to form a sentence, not daring to look into the rearview mirror. He could still vividly feel the sensation of being strangled to death, of nails piercing his skin, of thick, warm blood gushing down his clerical collar, staining it cherry red...
Garcia pulled off to the side of the road, grumbling underneath his breath. "Dios mio..."
He put the car in park and stepped out of it, opening the back seat to look at the pitiful man slumped over, disoriented. He was clearly hyperventilating, his chest heaving with quick, sharp inhales, his deep black hair glued to his forehead with beads of sweat. Garcia had never noticed how pronounced his dark circles were. He leaned over him to unbuckle his seatbelt, brushing against John's chest. "Father...I'm s-sorry..." John mumbled, mistaking his silence for disdain."It's ok, hijo," responded the elder priest, guiding John up to his feet. He placed his hand near his waist and threw John's arm over his shoulder.
He fervently hoped that it was just his sleep deprived thoughts, but being so close to Father Garcia gave him a strange feeling--a kind of pleasurable warmth that spread through his lower abdomen before, with a jab of guilt, being dispersed as quick as it manifested itself. He tried to ignore it. After what felt like hours, they were finally on the passenger side. He propped John up on the cool metal of the car as he opened the door, moving his shotgun from the passenger seat to the backseat floorboards. He silently prayed that Father Garcia would hurry up--his entire body was still shaking, and his right knee was loudly protesting having weight put on it.
Garcia wordlessly put an arm around John again, gently encouraging him to sit down in the seat. He gladly obliged, sighing in relief. He watched, through half-lidded eyes, Father Garcia crossing the sight of the windshield to sit down in the driver's seat. He closed the door with a slam and locked it. "Do you want to talk about...whatever the hell that was?" He fished a green pack from his pocket and rolled down a window. "It was another one of my dreams, Father." Garcia shook his head as he lit a cigarette, and soon, the scent of tobacco and a hint of mintiness wafted around the car. It made John itch for a light, but he was too tired to even hold his head up. Addiction be damned. "Rogelio." The older man grumbled, almost a whisper, before taking another drag deep into his lungs. "Uhm, excuse me?" Billows of smoke released from between Garcia's narrowly parted lips. "It's Rogelio when we're not on the job." John looked down at his feet, the warm feeling returning, slowly creeping down below his navel. "Yes...Rogelio," he awkwardly responded.
The rest of Rogelio's smoke break was spent in silence, with John trying desperately not to look in his direction, which Rogelio noted with...mixed feelings. Finally, he outed the flame in an ash tray before tossing it out the window onto the recently dampened grass below. As he rolled the window up, he glanced at the man in the other seat. His head was still lowered, which worried Rogelio a bit. He put a hand on John's shoulder. "Are you alright, hijo?" No response came. He leaned his head slightly down to look at his pale face. His eyes were closed, his lightly twitching features twisted into a scowl. "Mierda," he scoffed. He noticed that John had rested his hand on the partition between them. After a moment of hesitation, he took John's softer hand into his own calloused one, lightly stroking it with his thumb. He watched as John's expression softened. Content, Rogelio put the car in drive and started back on the road to his apartment.