dragonspell (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
dragonspell) wrote2010-05-03 10:11 pm
dragonspell) wrote2010-05-03 10:11 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: SPN (OMC/John): Burn It On Down [1/2] | NC-17 | 12120 words
Title: Burn It On Down
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dragonspell
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: OMC/John. Implied OMC/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: Pre-series and a warning for off-screen, attempted underage non-con.
Summary: John and the boys head to a backwoods Mississippi town in '92 following up on a report of a man drowning on dry land. The town's sheriff, though, keeps getting in John's way.
Word Count: 12,120
A/N: I did John fic. o_o But I don't have a John icon. Also, this fic was based off a lyric from a country song that just kind of grabbed me and carried me off. Edit: Also, I almost forgot. This fic is forentropyrose who wanted Daddy!slash. =)
“Dad, Dean punched me!” came the whine from the backseat.
“God, you’re such a little bitch, Sammy!” followed close on its heels.
“You’re a jerk!”
John Winchester sighed and turned up the radio in the Impala just a little bit louder. AC/DC might not drown out his two boys entirely but they certainly helped. Night was just starting to fall, twilight highlighting the road, and they were almost to Meersville, Mississippi which was perfect. John loved his boys but having been on the road for almost 13 hours now, he really didn’t know how much more he could take.
He’d found that the best way to handle these little spats was just to ignore them. The boys, he’d learned, weren’t really fighting, just bored and wanting to see how much they could get away with. It was just John’s luck, too, that his youngest, Sammy, had entered into a particularly insistent tattle-tale phase. John was tempted to just tell him one of his brother Dean’s current favorite phrases—“only bitches squeal!”—just to see the reaction but Jim had assured him that that was definitely not the right way to go. John glanced up quickly into his rearview mirror, wearily acknowledging that, sure enough, the two boys were sitting on opposite sides of the Impala, ignoring each other. Dean was staring out the window, watching the world go by and Sammy was pouting, arms crossed as he glared at the seat in front of him.
He supposed that he should consider himself lucky. Besides these little grabs for attention, Dean and Sammy rarely fought. Sure, they tussled like boys do, but never for real. Dean was way too protective of little Sammy for that—one sign that Sammy was getting pissed and Dean would fold quicker than a house of cards in a strong wind.
They were entering the town limits, now, though, and it would only be a matter of minutes before they’d be parked and Dean and Sam could go stretch their legs—work off that boredom. John could make out a welcoming neon glow just ahead.
He pulled in to the motel, the Impala crunching over the hard packed gravel and rumbled to a stop in front of the office. He put the car in park and then turned around to stare down his two sons, giving them the sternest look he could muster with his current exhaustion. “I’ll be right back,” he said. In other words, ‘you’d better stay the fuck put.’ Dean nodded and Sam pouted harder so he knew that they’d heard him.
Bells jingled as he entered the office, sounding out his arrival, and John took a quick stock of the place, mapping it instinctively. There was a window directly in front of him, the only other apparent escape route. To his right was a bulletin board full of old brochures advertising dubious ‘vacation spots’ and to his left was the front desk. John strode up to the desk, glancing around for a clerk before finally looking down and finding the guy curled up under the counter. John blinked, taken aback, and weighed his options before finally just deciding to knock.
The man jerked, his head swiveling as he attempted to look every single direction at once. “Whazzat?”
John cleared his throat. “Can I get a room?” he asked.
“Oh!” the clerk said, rolling to his knees and awkwardly moving out from under the counter to climb to his feet. Early forties, John estimated, with short blond hair and a mole on his left cheek—the information was noted and filed automatically but just as easily discarded. It was a force of habit at this point, instead of a deliberate effort. John was too tired for deliberate efforts at the moment. “Yeah, sure,” the clerk muttered, “here, uh…” He rummaged around in a disorganized box of keys, apparently choosing one at random. “Number 6 okay?” John kept his eyebrows level and nodded. He just wanted a damn room. “30 bucks.”
“How much per month?” John asked. He was kind of hoping to be able to stick around for a little while, at least until Sammy stopped pouting. Kid was starting to complain about moving around so much, though Hell if John could figure out why. It’d been one of his dreams when he was little to travel a lot—one of his more hidden motivations for joining the military—and he didn’t remember Dean ever complaining this much either. Still, John had to admit, Sam was different.
“Oh, uh…” The guy shrugged. “Two-fifty sound okay?” He didn’t sound all that concerned about it.
“You’re sure?” John asked, just to be clear.
“Yeah, man. We don’t have much call for, you know, ‘monthly rates’ but I’m, uh, the owner so I suppose what I say goes, right?” The guy tried for a winning smile but it was shot through with a heavy dose of smarmy—and he was missing his left canine.
“As long as you’re sure,” John said, handing over the cash. The pool halls back in Indiana had been good to him—weeks later and he was still sitting pretty enough that pulling out $250 didn’t even make him blink an eye.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” The clerk slid the key across the counter and John swiped it up before turning towards the door. As he left the office, the bells ringing again, he noticed the apparently owner curling back up underneath his counter. John shook his head in tired disbelief. Took all kinds, he supposed.
Dean and Sammy, thankfully, were right where he’d left them which was a small blessing in itself. The boys tended to get creative ideas about staying put sometimes, especially after long rides. John eased himself back down into the familiar seat and backed the Impala up to take it over to number 6.
Dean popped over the front seat, folding his arms over the back of it. “Can I drive?” he asked, staring covetously at the Impala’s dash and John hid his smile.
“In five months,” he replied. Damn, but that was coming up fast.
“Not this shit again…” Dean whined. “I’m old enough to—”
“Dean, we’ve been over this. You can drive the Impala when you’re 14.” It was an argument that they’d been hashing out for months now—or as much of an argument as Dean dared to push. “And watch your mouth,” John added as an after thought.
Dean dropped back into the back seat, crossing his arms and doing a great impression of Sammy. “’Snot like I don’t already know how to.”
That was true. Dean’d known how to drive ever since he was nine. But it really wasn’t the point. “Then I won’t have to teach you, will I?”
Dean rolled his eyes and Sammy started to snicker. At least until Dean punched him again. “DAD!”
Oh look, they were here. John parked the Impala directly in front of room 6 and killed the ignition, escaping from the meltdown before it even got a chance to start. He needed a shower, a beer, and a bed in that order. Lucky for him, John thought, popping the trunk, room number 6 of the Luckstar Motel was about to have all three.
The car doors slammed as Dean and Sammy got out, too, rounding around back to grab their bags. As Dean was reaching in, though, John grabbed his arm, making Dean glance up at him. “Salt lines first,” John said. Priorities.
“Yes, sir,” Dean replied and John smiled, moving his hand up to ruffle Dean’s hair. Dean ducked away, but he was grinning from ear to ear as he yanked his bag out of the trunk and ran for the door. “Come on, princess,” he called to Sammy. “We don’t have all day for you to finish picking out your dress!”
Sammy huffed a sigh, sounding terribly older than nine and John repressed a shiver as he caught a glimpse of what Sam would probably be like as a teenager. It was a frightening thought. Sam already had the touchy teenage angst down; John didn’t even want to consider what he might be like with a little bit of practice and a ton of confusing hormones to back it up.
The boys were waiting impatiently at the door when John finally reached it and fumbled with the key to unlock it. The door stuck, just a little, but John figured that was manageable. Better to have a door that sticks than a door that wouldn’t close.
He walked in, noticing the two beds to his left and the tiny little living area to his right before dumping his bag in the nearest chair and heading for the bathroom at the far end of the room. Sammy was already starting to lecture Dean on the proper formation of runes: how this one curved and that those two were supposed to be further apart... John tuned them out as he entered the bathroom. The shower was hot, and that was really all he cared about at the moment.
---
They were here because of a tiny article in a small-town newspaper that Sammy had dug up. A man had drowned on dry land. Well, relatively dry land. The area surrounding Meersville was pure swamp and it ran for miles in every direction though the man had technically died at the edge of town—just outside the swamp area. John wasn’t looking forward, though, to trudging through the brackish waters and squelching mud of a Mississippi swampland.
Luckily, Dean was already bitching for him. “There’s nothing but mud in this town,” he noted sourly, glancing around at the old buildings of ‘downtown’ Meersville. John was tempted to agree. There was a gas station attached to a grocery story, a few residences, a tiny post office, and the little diner that they were standing in front of but that was about it. “Seriously. There’s like no girls anywhere. This place blows.”
John quirked a smile and quickly hid it. It was a source of amusement for him that Dean had finally started noticing the fairer sex, finally realizing that they were good for more than just the occasional free cookie. He didn’t want to encourage the boy more than he already was, though, because that would be all he needed—Dean disappearing on him and possible getting some girl pregnant. Bad enough the boy was sneaking around in closets already. John didn’t remember being quite that precocious when he was 13, but, then again, 13 was a long ways away, so what did he know?
Sammy was pouting at Dean’s elbow because if John found Dean’s newfound love of the opposite sex funny, Sam found it absolutely infuriating. John could understand it—bad enough to be four years younger than your older brother without having to compete for his attention with girls who offered suddenly much more attractive ways of spending time than hanging out with a baby brother. So Sammy always scowled harder whenever Dean even mentioned the word ‘girls’ now. Unfortunately, Dean tended to do this a lot lately. “I’m hungry,” Sam said petulantly.
“Good thing we’re here, then,” John said, opening the door to the restaurant. Bells chimed for this door, too, and he was beginning to think that the whole town had a thing for them. The diner was small with six tables squeezed inside and, somehow, a small counter with extra stools done in a fifties-inspired red vinyl.
John ushered the boys over the checkered floor to an open table in the corner, trying to appear unobtrusive as they walked past the few patrons. There was an elderly couple at the first table staring him down, an old guy with a newspaper in the back and John was willing to bet that the cop dressed in the pleated brown pants with a matching brown hat was the sheriff. He certainly acted the part, sprawling on his stool and attempting to take up as much room as possible—the typical big fish in a little pond.
The boys slid into the booth, Sam against the window and Dean blocking him from the rest of the world like usual and John sat down opposite of them, placing his back to the picture-covered wall. It was their typical formation and just how John liked it: Dean making sure Sammy stayed safe while John had a full view of any possible dangers. True, nothing was likely to happen in here but better safe than sorry. The sheriff was still staring at them but John ignored him, watching as the boys explored the red and white menu together, pointing at different items.
“I so want fries,” Dean said and Sam muttered that he didn’t. “Shut up. You know you’ll so eat mine if you don’t get any.”
The old man in the corner refolded his newspaper, flipping it over to read the opposite side and the elderly couple was trying to pretend that John and the boys didn’t exist except that the old woman kept sneaking glances over at Dean and Sam’s bowed heads with a small, secret smile. John was willing to bet that she, despite her cranky husband, carried candy in her purse.
Over by the sheriff, there were two ketchup bottles on the counter but four napkin tins. Apparently somebody was used to a mess. Just above the sheriff’s left shoulder, through a window into the kitchen, John could see the cook standing at the grill line.
And all the salt shakers were full.
The sheriff was chewing on a toothpick as he attempted to bore a hole in John’s head but, for the moment, he seemed content to stay put which was good because John was hungry and the only waitress in the place was heading their way.
She had on a pink dress covered with a white apron, like an old style uniform, and she wielded her pen like a weapon. She twirled it when she reached them, smiling like a fond mother at Dean and Sam. “What can I get you boys?”
John put on his own easy smile, feeling a welcome surge of satisfaction when it made the waitress do a double take before widening her grin. Good to know he still had it. “Waters are fine and I’ll take a Rueben and a bowl of whatever soup you got. Dean here—” John jerked his chin towards the boy—“will have a burger with the works.”
“Double fries!” Dean cut in, his eyes wide. He gripped the edge of the table, apparently willing to fight for his extra order.
John huffed a laugh. “Double fries. And Sammy? What do you want?” John had learned the hard way to just let Sam order for himself. It really didn’t matter what John ordered for him or if it was he actually wanted—Sam would want something different just to be contrary.
Sam glanced at Dean who smiled. Of course, on the flip side, it didn’t really matter what Dean ordered—Sam would eat it. Like Dean had a hotline into Sammy’s sub-consciousness. “Sammy wants a grilled cheese,” Dean said, reaching to ruffle Sam’s hair. Sam leaned into the touch before he remembered that he was supposed to be playing Dean’s part and duck away. He shook his head away from Dean’s hand and half-heartedly fixed his hair like he hadn’t just been caught.
The waitress smiled at them both before walking away to just back behind the counter, talking to the cook as she hung up the order. The sheriff was still staring straight at them.
Sam picked at a hole in the vinyl seat while Dean gave in to being a kid and started rearranging the sugar packets and neither of them noticed the way that the sheriff was quietly warning them out of town. With any luck, though, they’d be able to steer clear of them man because John didn’t want to have to worry about any suspicious small-town sheriffs or whatever agendas they might be pushing.
“Hope you boys are hungry,” John rumbled, just to see two smiles being aimed his way.
---
Mud squelched around John’s boots, the gunk sucking at him as he stepped through the dark swamp. Tree branches grabbed for him but John ducked out of the way. He kicked past some scraping underbrush and tightened his grip on the shotgun as he glanced around, looking for any sign of movement. Dean was right on his heels, watching their six and checking for anything John might have missed and John was glad that they left Sammy back at the motel. Unlike Dean, Sam didn’t have any problem complaining. Dean was a trooper, though, and together, with a little luck, they might just find out what kind of creature was prowling this area.
John already had a bit of a clue. Drowning on dry land and in a swamp no less pointed towards a water hag. Nasty little creatures that liked to live in bogs and whose favorite MO was to drag their victims under the surface of the brackish water. If caught out, though, they had no problems with smothering people instead which, since a water hag was mostly made up of swamp water and debris, that meant a drowning.
If it was a water hag, too, then it just meant a good bonfire would be all that it would take to get rid of it. John had made sure to bring a make-shift flamethrower with him for when they found the thing.
The forest was eerily quiet, too. Just a little too quiet for John not to think that something was going on. A twig snapped the right and he whirled, raising his shotgun, ready to blast whatever straight on back to Hell. Dean took up position, just a few feet away from him, enough that if they got rushed, the monster would have to chose. Good boy.
“Drop your weapons!” came screaming out from the trees, though, and John jerked his gun away. What the Hell? What emerged from the woods wasn’t a water hag or even anything supernatural, but instead Meersville’s own small-town sheriff, carefully stepping through the underbrush with his pistol raised.
John glanced over at Dean who’d made no move to lower his gun and nodded at him. Dean scowled but he reluctantly brought it back down.
“I said drop your weapons!” The sheriff was close enough for John to make out the pleat in his crisp brown pants and the badge on his standard issue jacket. He was also close enough for John to catch the little bit of fear in his brown eyes.
“Can’t do that, sheriff,” John said back, nice and easy—non-threatening but firm. Like Hell he was going to put down his first line of defense in this place.
“I knew that you were trouble the first time you walked into George’s,” the sheriff retorted, still advancing steadily. “Now drop your weapons. I will shoot.”
It was a stupid thing to say but he couldn’t help himself. “Who says that I won’t shoot you first?”
The sheriff’s nostrils flared and he cocked his gun but he never got a chance to use it. A hand shot up out of the pool of water that he was passing, latching onto his ankle and attempting to drag him down into the mud and hidden depths. The sheriff shouted, his shot going wild as the thing pulled his leg out from under him and dragged him across the ground, digging a trench through the muck.
“Dean!” John barked as he raised his gun and took a shot, the bang echoing through the trees. The shot hit the water and debris flew up, splattering across the landscape as the thing that was dragging the sheriff screamed and let go. Dean followed through on another perfect shot that had the creature screaming louder, sinking back into the depths of the swamp. Skittering backwards, the sheriff took a few shots of his own, 9mm caliber rounds sinking into the swamp after the disappearing creature.
John lowered his gun, glancing around, before taking a few steps towards the sheriff. “You alright?” he called.
The sheriff swung his head to stare at John. “What the fuck was that thing?!”
John nodded at the swamp. “Reason I couldn’t put down my gun, sheriff. Water hag.”
“Water-what?” the sheriff demanded, scrambling to his feet and away from what was very well could have been his grave. And that would be another reason why John tended not to like suspicious small-town sheriffs: They had a bad tendency to just plain walk into traps. Too stupid to see them.
“Creature that lives in swamps,” John replied calmly, checking his gun over. “Likes to kill people.”
“That’s impossible!” The sheriff had his gun trained back on John but John didn’t let it bother him.
He stared the sheriff down. “You saw the hand, sheriff. Or are you going to pretend that you weren’t just dragged across the ground by it?”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Just what the Hell did you bring with you?” he hissed like that actually made sense.
John snorted. “I didn’t bring anything. I came here about Don Whitly.”
“Don Whitly’s dead.” The gun was still pointed at John.
“Yeah,” John said, bringing his shotgun up to rest on his shoulder. “And he was a friend of mine.” It was an out and out lie but John was willing to bet that the two bit hick in front of him wouldn’t be able to tell. Whitly, according to the obituary, had been a military man, career, so it was entirely possible.
The sheriff stepped closer. “Dad,” Dean said, his gun still trained on the sheriff. The man froze, staring at Dean, reassessing him as a possible threat.
“Sheriff,” John sighed. “You saw what you saw. And I think that’s the same thing that killed Don.” They really didn’t have time for this—the monster was getting away and bullets only slowed it down for so long.
The sheriff slowly lowered his gun, staring at John and John thought that maybe they were finally getting somewhere but that’s when the world exploded.
Multiple hands shot out of hidden pools of water and, shambling through the trees, came others. “Fuck,” John swore, firing at the closest one. He winged it, sending it reeling, but the others were still coming.
“Jesus Christ,” the sheriff squeaked, firing at the advancing creatures.
Dean was already up and running, heading towards John. “Dad!”
“Run for the car!” John shouted at him, pointing Dean back the way he’d come. “Just run for the goddamned car, Dean!” Fuck, there must have been at least twenty of them, all coming for him and whatever happened to water hags being solitary creatures? John rushed by the sheriff, who’d emptied his clip and had been standing there clicking uselessly. John grabbed him, pulling him along. “Run!”
Dean had already obeyed, flashing through the trees, not stopping for anything that got in his way. John fired at one of the monsters who got too close and kept himself and the sheriff hard on Dean’s tail.
They burst out of the woods, curving around the clearing to where they’d parked the Impala, the sheriff’s Tahoe sitting right beside it. Dean threw himself inside the Impala, slamming the door after him and John followed suit, throwing the car into drive and whipping it around, gunning it for the road. In the rearview mirror, John could see the sheriff right behind him and then nothing but clear woods. Apparently the water hags had stopped at the forest border.
“Fuck,” Dean panted in the passenger seat, grabbing his chest like it was going to help him catch his breath.
John wanted to snap at him to watch his mouth, but he didn’t even have enough air at the moment to get it out. Besides, John figured if there was any situation that deserved a FUBAR designation, this was one of them. They were so fucking screwed. One water hag was easy. An entire nest? Different fucking story. Must have been a fucking breeding ground.
They’d have to call in reinforcements. Maybe Caleb. Caleb liked explosions. He’d be good.
They were in the motel parking lot before John was even aware of where he was driving—he must have been doing at least ninety. At least he knew he wasn’t going to get pulled over, though, not with the sheriff on his tail. That, though, wasn’t going to stop the stupid dumbfuck from flashing his lights. Apparently, he’d thought that they’d gone far enough and maybe that John was cornered now. John wiped at his face as he put the car into park and glanced over at Dean. “Get in the motel room,” he ordered.
Dean glanced out the back window at the sheriff’s SUV. “Dad—”
“That’s an order, Dean! Go make sure Sammy’s safe.” Dean fumbled for the handle and fell out of the car before John had even finished the sentence, running for the room. The sheriff was out of his SUV and gave an abortive yell for Dean to stop but then decided he had bigger fish to fry and headed towards the Impala. John waited until Dean was safely inside the motel room before finally getting out himself.
The sheriff paused as John stood, the few extra inches of height that John had on the other man apparently making him reconsider. “Sheriff,” John said, nodding, and waited for the sheriff’s next move.
John raised his eyebrows when instead of pulling out his gun again like John was half-suspecting he would, the sheriff stuck out his hand. “Paul McKinsey.”
John hesitated before taking the offered hand, shaking it. “John Winchester.”
The sheriff smiled tightly before grabbing a hold of John’s wrist with his other hand and dragging him in close. “Let’s get a few things straight, Winchester,” he hissed, all pretend friendliness falling away. “I don’t like two-bit drifters in my town.”
“Good thing I’m not a two-bit drifter,” John growled in reply, narrowing his eyes. Fucking moron—John should have just let the hags have him.
“I don’t know who you are or what those things were but I’ll tell you right now: I will soon.” A lock of hair was falling into McKinsey’s eyes, fracturing the effect of his glare, and he was still covered in mud. John smirked.
“Good enough,” he said and yanked his hand away from McKinsey’s grip. “Try not to get killed, Sheriff.”
“That a threat, Winchester?” John just smiled, holding out his hands as he backed away, heading for the motel room. It was whatever Sheriff Paul McKinsey wanted to take it as.
---
When John woke up the next morning, Dean was nowhere to be found. Laying on his side on top of the sheets, John stared directly at the other bed where Sammy was still buried under the covers fast asleep but Dean was gone. John jerked awake, sitting up. “Dean?” he called.
Sammy stirred and rolled over. “Dad?” he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
John jumped out of bed, heading to the bathroom and looking inside. Empty. “Where’s your brother?” John demanded and Sammy sat up straight at his tone, scooting back against the headboard and pulling the blankets up to his chin. Sam darted his eyes towards the covered window that faced the motel’s parking lot, already putting two and two together and John swore as he jogged to the door.
Dean could handle himself. Dean was a very capable thirteen year old, smarter than people twice his age. He also, though, was pretty fucking stupid sometimes and how many times did John have to tell him to make sure someone knew where you were at all times?
John hauled open the door. “DEAN?”
Dean was leaning against the Impala, talking to a man John had never met before and he whipped around at the sound of John’s voice. The man that Dean had been talking to—pony-tailed, mid-twenties and dressed in leather, probably the owner of the Harley Dean’d been admiring—glanced up, too. He was also standing entirely too close to Dean for John’s comfort. John darted over, dropping a hand onto Dean’s shoulder and shoving the boy behind him. “Dad!”
“I’ll deal with you later,” John growled, keeping his full attention on the man in front of him, There’d be time enough to beat Dean’s ass for taking off after he dealt with the man that was currently staring at Dean like he was a nice little side of lamb. It was getting about time to give Dean another talk about strange men. The boy was getting too damn pretty for his own fucking good and was still apparently as naïve about that as a newborn baby. “Can I help you?” he snarled.
The man grinned, rocking back on his heels. “Dean was just admiring my bike,” he said lazily.
“I’m sure he was.” John shoved Dean back towards the open door. “Get inside.”
“But he was just—”
John shoved him harder. “I said get your ass back inside!” The protest drained out of Dean’s face, replaced by fear and he took off, darting back inside the room.
The man chuckled to himself and kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. “I wouldn’t have hurt him, John.”
“And just how the fuck do you know my name?”
“Caleb sent me,” the man replied. “Name’s Tommy Walters.”
“I don’t care what the fuck your name is,” John growled. “What do you mean Caleb sent you?” He’d called Caleb last night, asking the other hunter to come down and help him out. If Caleb had sent this son of a bitch in his place, though, John was going to have to rethink his dealings with the other hunter. John knew Caleb. He didn’t know Tommy fucking Walters.
Tommy Walters shrugged his shoulders. “Caleb called me last night, man. Said he had a big job and was going to need lots of help. Wanted to know if I wanted in.” He jerked his thumb towards the diner just down the street. “There’s a couple more of us here already.” Then he held up his hands. “Listen, man, I don’t want any trouble. I was just cruising around, checking the place out and the kid saw my bike. That’s all. Hell, I didn’t even know he was yours at first. Not until he leaned up against that pretty little car you got there.”
John stared. “How many of you are there?”
Tommy shrugged. “You’d have to ask Caleb that. Right now there’s at least three others that I know of.”
And just like it was a cue, John heard the rumble of Caleb’s truck coming down the road. He swung his attention over to it as it slowly pulled into the parking lot, coming to a stop opposite the Impala. John glared at Tommy, causing him to hold his hands up higher before stalking over to the truck. “Did you call the whole freaking country?” John demanded.
Caleb slid quietly out of the truck, bringing his duffle along with him. “Hey John,” he said quietly, as unruffled as ever as he shut the door behind him.
“Don’t you ‘hey John’ me,” John shouted. “You answer my damn question!”
Caleb winced. “I knew you wouldn’t go for it.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t have—”
“BUT,” Caleb broke in, overriding John, “if there’s as many as you say there is… John, we’re going to need help on this one.”
John closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It wouldn’t be a great idea to get into an argument in the middle of an open parking lot—not with Sheriff McMoron having it out for him. He took a deep breath, reining in his temper. Caleb was right, of course. Damn man was hardly ever wrong. But still. “You should have told me,” muttered.
“I know,” Caleb said back, just as quietly. “I should have and I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know these guys, Caleb.”
Caleb shook his head and clasped a hand on John’s shoulder. “I only called ones that I trusted.”
“And how many is that?” John asked. He had to know the score here.
“Tommy,” Caleb said, holding up a finger for each one he counted off. “Katherine Norvegger and Brad Holslinger.”
John pressed in closer, looming and making Caleb have to bend backwards to be able to meet him eye to eye. “Little Tommy Walters over there says there’s at least three besides him.”
Caleb stared. “I didn’t call the other one, John. They must have come with somebody else.”
“Fuck,” John swore. He flattened his hand against the side of Caleb’s truck. “Damn it, Caleb, I’ve got kids to watch out for here.” Fucking naïve kids who apparently didn’t have the sense that God gave a damn squid.
Caleb didn’t even flinch, staring John down. “Kids that I love just as much as you, John. I promise that they’ll be safe.”
John stared for a little bit more, judging Caleb’s words. “Okay,” he said finally. “But they don’t come anywhere near my boys.”
Caleb favored John with a little smile. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Okay, then.” John backed up enough to let Caleb stand up straight. He rolled his shoulders and glanced to the side. “Dean’s been wantin’ to see you.” Maybe it was because Caleb was just about as close to Dean’s age as hunters tended to get—certainly closer than John, that was for certain—but Dean had a bit of a hero-worshipping crush on Caleb. And at least Sammy kind of agreed with Dean on this one.
Caleb’s smile widened and he threw his duffle over his shoulder so John started to show him back to room number 6. They passed the grinning Tommy Walters on the way and John paused just long to growl, “Stay away from my boy,” before turning away. He saw Caleb’s understanding grimace to Tommy but decided to ignore it. He’d already gotten his point across.
Over by the office, he saw the sleepy owner of the Luckstar watching them. John gave him a nod, letting him know that things had been taken care of, and entered the motel after Dean.
“He didn’t do anything, Dad,” Dean said quietly as soon as John walked in. Dean was sitting on the bed, next to Sammy and looking positively dejected, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Sammy, on the other hand, looked pissed.
John sighed. “But he could have, Dean,” he said.
“But he didn’t,” Sam told the floor. He flicked his eyes up to meet John’s. “Dean’s smarter than that.”
“Sammy,” John warned and Sam turned his head to glower at the wall. John looked back at Dean. “Just stay away from him,” John said. “He’s a hunter and you can’t trust hunters.”
Sam’s head whipped back around and John raised a finger. “Pastor Jim’s different.” Dean frowned and John sighed again. “So’s Bobby.”
“And me, I hope?” Caleb asked.
John glared him down. “The point is,” he told the boys, “You listen to me when I tell you something, are we clear?” The boys nodded—Dean a sharp, emphatic yes, Sammy a sullen maybe but it was good enough for right now. “Good,” he snapped. “Now stay away from other hunters.”
---
On to Part 2
Author:
dragonspellFandom: Supernatural
Pairing: OMC/John. Implied OMC/Dean
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: Pre-series and a warning for off-screen, attempted underage non-con.
Summary: John and the boys head to a backwoods Mississippi town in '92 following up on a report of a man drowning on dry land. The town's sheriff, though, keeps getting in John's way.
Word Count: 12,120
A/N: I did John fic. o_o But I don't have a John icon. Also, this fic was based off a lyric from a country song that just kind of grabbed me and carried me off. Edit: Also, I almost forgot. This fic is for
entropyrose who wanted Daddy!slash. =)“Dad, Dean punched me!” came the whine from the backseat.
“God, you’re such a little bitch, Sammy!” followed close on its heels.
“You’re a jerk!”
John Winchester sighed and turned up the radio in the Impala just a little bit louder. AC/DC might not drown out his two boys entirely but they certainly helped. Night was just starting to fall, twilight highlighting the road, and they were almost to Meersville, Mississippi which was perfect. John loved his boys but having been on the road for almost 13 hours now, he really didn’t know how much more he could take.
He’d found that the best way to handle these little spats was just to ignore them. The boys, he’d learned, weren’t really fighting, just bored and wanting to see how much they could get away with. It was just John’s luck, too, that his youngest, Sammy, had entered into a particularly insistent tattle-tale phase. John was tempted to just tell him one of his brother Dean’s current favorite phrases—“only bitches squeal!”—just to see the reaction but Jim had assured him that that was definitely not the right way to go. John glanced up quickly into his rearview mirror, wearily acknowledging that, sure enough, the two boys were sitting on opposite sides of the Impala, ignoring each other. Dean was staring out the window, watching the world go by and Sammy was pouting, arms crossed as he glared at the seat in front of him.
He supposed that he should consider himself lucky. Besides these little grabs for attention, Dean and Sammy rarely fought. Sure, they tussled like boys do, but never for real. Dean was way too protective of little Sammy for that—one sign that Sammy was getting pissed and Dean would fold quicker than a house of cards in a strong wind.
They were entering the town limits, now, though, and it would only be a matter of minutes before they’d be parked and Dean and Sam could go stretch their legs—work off that boredom. John could make out a welcoming neon glow just ahead.
He pulled in to the motel, the Impala crunching over the hard packed gravel and rumbled to a stop in front of the office. He put the car in park and then turned around to stare down his two sons, giving them the sternest look he could muster with his current exhaustion. “I’ll be right back,” he said. In other words, ‘you’d better stay the fuck put.’ Dean nodded and Sam pouted harder so he knew that they’d heard him.
Bells jingled as he entered the office, sounding out his arrival, and John took a quick stock of the place, mapping it instinctively. There was a window directly in front of him, the only other apparent escape route. To his right was a bulletin board full of old brochures advertising dubious ‘vacation spots’ and to his left was the front desk. John strode up to the desk, glancing around for a clerk before finally looking down and finding the guy curled up under the counter. John blinked, taken aback, and weighed his options before finally just deciding to knock.
The man jerked, his head swiveling as he attempted to look every single direction at once. “Whazzat?”
John cleared his throat. “Can I get a room?” he asked.
“Oh!” the clerk said, rolling to his knees and awkwardly moving out from under the counter to climb to his feet. Early forties, John estimated, with short blond hair and a mole on his left cheek—the information was noted and filed automatically but just as easily discarded. It was a force of habit at this point, instead of a deliberate effort. John was too tired for deliberate efforts at the moment. “Yeah, sure,” the clerk muttered, “here, uh…” He rummaged around in a disorganized box of keys, apparently choosing one at random. “Number 6 okay?” John kept his eyebrows level and nodded. He just wanted a damn room. “30 bucks.”
“How much per month?” John asked. He was kind of hoping to be able to stick around for a little while, at least until Sammy stopped pouting. Kid was starting to complain about moving around so much, though Hell if John could figure out why. It’d been one of his dreams when he was little to travel a lot—one of his more hidden motivations for joining the military—and he didn’t remember Dean ever complaining this much either. Still, John had to admit, Sam was different.
“Oh, uh…” The guy shrugged. “Two-fifty sound okay?” He didn’t sound all that concerned about it.
“You’re sure?” John asked, just to be clear.
“Yeah, man. We don’t have much call for, you know, ‘monthly rates’ but I’m, uh, the owner so I suppose what I say goes, right?” The guy tried for a winning smile but it was shot through with a heavy dose of smarmy—and he was missing his left canine.
“As long as you’re sure,” John said, handing over the cash. The pool halls back in Indiana had been good to him—weeks later and he was still sitting pretty enough that pulling out $250 didn’t even make him blink an eye.
“Yeah, I’m sure.” The clerk slid the key across the counter and John swiped it up before turning towards the door. As he left the office, the bells ringing again, he noticed the apparently owner curling back up underneath his counter. John shook his head in tired disbelief. Took all kinds, he supposed.
Dean and Sammy, thankfully, were right where he’d left them which was a small blessing in itself. The boys tended to get creative ideas about staying put sometimes, especially after long rides. John eased himself back down into the familiar seat and backed the Impala up to take it over to number 6.
Dean popped over the front seat, folding his arms over the back of it. “Can I drive?” he asked, staring covetously at the Impala’s dash and John hid his smile.
“In five months,” he replied. Damn, but that was coming up fast.
“Not this shit again…” Dean whined. “I’m old enough to—”
“Dean, we’ve been over this. You can drive the Impala when you’re 14.” It was an argument that they’d been hashing out for months now—or as much of an argument as Dean dared to push. “And watch your mouth,” John added as an after thought.
Dean dropped back into the back seat, crossing his arms and doing a great impression of Sammy. “’Snot like I don’t already know how to.”
That was true. Dean’d known how to drive ever since he was nine. But it really wasn’t the point. “Then I won’t have to teach you, will I?”
Dean rolled his eyes and Sammy started to snicker. At least until Dean punched him again. “DAD!”
Oh look, they were here. John parked the Impala directly in front of room 6 and killed the ignition, escaping from the meltdown before it even got a chance to start. He needed a shower, a beer, and a bed in that order. Lucky for him, John thought, popping the trunk, room number 6 of the Luckstar Motel was about to have all three.
The car doors slammed as Dean and Sammy got out, too, rounding around back to grab their bags. As Dean was reaching in, though, John grabbed his arm, making Dean glance up at him. “Salt lines first,” John said. Priorities.
“Yes, sir,” Dean replied and John smiled, moving his hand up to ruffle Dean’s hair. Dean ducked away, but he was grinning from ear to ear as he yanked his bag out of the trunk and ran for the door. “Come on, princess,” he called to Sammy. “We don’t have all day for you to finish picking out your dress!”
Sammy huffed a sigh, sounding terribly older than nine and John repressed a shiver as he caught a glimpse of what Sam would probably be like as a teenager. It was a frightening thought. Sam already had the touchy teenage angst down; John didn’t even want to consider what he might be like with a little bit of practice and a ton of confusing hormones to back it up.
The boys were waiting impatiently at the door when John finally reached it and fumbled with the key to unlock it. The door stuck, just a little, but John figured that was manageable. Better to have a door that sticks than a door that wouldn’t close.
He walked in, noticing the two beds to his left and the tiny little living area to his right before dumping his bag in the nearest chair and heading for the bathroom at the far end of the room. Sammy was already starting to lecture Dean on the proper formation of runes: how this one curved and that those two were supposed to be further apart... John tuned them out as he entered the bathroom. The shower was hot, and that was really all he cared about at the moment.
---
They were here because of a tiny article in a small-town newspaper that Sammy had dug up. A man had drowned on dry land. Well, relatively dry land. The area surrounding Meersville was pure swamp and it ran for miles in every direction though the man had technically died at the edge of town—just outside the swamp area. John wasn’t looking forward, though, to trudging through the brackish waters and squelching mud of a Mississippi swampland.
Luckily, Dean was already bitching for him. “There’s nothing but mud in this town,” he noted sourly, glancing around at the old buildings of ‘downtown’ Meersville. John was tempted to agree. There was a gas station attached to a grocery story, a few residences, a tiny post office, and the little diner that they were standing in front of but that was about it. “Seriously. There’s like no girls anywhere. This place blows.”
John quirked a smile and quickly hid it. It was a source of amusement for him that Dean had finally started noticing the fairer sex, finally realizing that they were good for more than just the occasional free cookie. He didn’t want to encourage the boy more than he already was, though, because that would be all he needed—Dean disappearing on him and possible getting some girl pregnant. Bad enough the boy was sneaking around in closets already. John didn’t remember being quite that precocious when he was 13, but, then again, 13 was a long ways away, so what did he know?
Sammy was pouting at Dean’s elbow because if John found Dean’s newfound love of the opposite sex funny, Sam found it absolutely infuriating. John could understand it—bad enough to be four years younger than your older brother without having to compete for his attention with girls who offered suddenly much more attractive ways of spending time than hanging out with a baby brother. So Sammy always scowled harder whenever Dean even mentioned the word ‘girls’ now. Unfortunately, Dean tended to do this a lot lately. “I’m hungry,” Sam said petulantly.
“Good thing we’re here, then,” John said, opening the door to the restaurant. Bells chimed for this door, too, and he was beginning to think that the whole town had a thing for them. The diner was small with six tables squeezed inside and, somehow, a small counter with extra stools done in a fifties-inspired red vinyl.
John ushered the boys over the checkered floor to an open table in the corner, trying to appear unobtrusive as they walked past the few patrons. There was an elderly couple at the first table staring him down, an old guy with a newspaper in the back and John was willing to bet that the cop dressed in the pleated brown pants with a matching brown hat was the sheriff. He certainly acted the part, sprawling on his stool and attempting to take up as much room as possible—the typical big fish in a little pond.
The boys slid into the booth, Sam against the window and Dean blocking him from the rest of the world like usual and John sat down opposite of them, placing his back to the picture-covered wall. It was their typical formation and just how John liked it: Dean making sure Sammy stayed safe while John had a full view of any possible dangers. True, nothing was likely to happen in here but better safe than sorry. The sheriff was still staring at them but John ignored him, watching as the boys explored the red and white menu together, pointing at different items.
“I so want fries,” Dean said and Sam muttered that he didn’t. “Shut up. You know you’ll so eat mine if you don’t get any.”
The old man in the corner refolded his newspaper, flipping it over to read the opposite side and the elderly couple was trying to pretend that John and the boys didn’t exist except that the old woman kept sneaking glances over at Dean and Sam’s bowed heads with a small, secret smile. John was willing to bet that she, despite her cranky husband, carried candy in her purse.
Over by the sheriff, there were two ketchup bottles on the counter but four napkin tins. Apparently somebody was used to a mess. Just above the sheriff’s left shoulder, through a window into the kitchen, John could see the cook standing at the grill line.
And all the salt shakers were full.
The sheriff was chewing on a toothpick as he attempted to bore a hole in John’s head but, for the moment, he seemed content to stay put which was good because John was hungry and the only waitress in the place was heading their way.
She had on a pink dress covered with a white apron, like an old style uniform, and she wielded her pen like a weapon. She twirled it when she reached them, smiling like a fond mother at Dean and Sam. “What can I get you boys?”
John put on his own easy smile, feeling a welcome surge of satisfaction when it made the waitress do a double take before widening her grin. Good to know he still had it. “Waters are fine and I’ll take a Rueben and a bowl of whatever soup you got. Dean here—” John jerked his chin towards the boy—“will have a burger with the works.”
“Double fries!” Dean cut in, his eyes wide. He gripped the edge of the table, apparently willing to fight for his extra order.
John huffed a laugh. “Double fries. And Sammy? What do you want?” John had learned the hard way to just let Sam order for himself. It really didn’t matter what John ordered for him or if it was he actually wanted—Sam would want something different just to be contrary.
Sam glanced at Dean who smiled. Of course, on the flip side, it didn’t really matter what Dean ordered—Sam would eat it. Like Dean had a hotline into Sammy’s sub-consciousness. “Sammy wants a grilled cheese,” Dean said, reaching to ruffle Sam’s hair. Sam leaned into the touch before he remembered that he was supposed to be playing Dean’s part and duck away. He shook his head away from Dean’s hand and half-heartedly fixed his hair like he hadn’t just been caught.
The waitress smiled at them both before walking away to just back behind the counter, talking to the cook as she hung up the order. The sheriff was still staring straight at them.
Sam picked at a hole in the vinyl seat while Dean gave in to being a kid and started rearranging the sugar packets and neither of them noticed the way that the sheriff was quietly warning them out of town. With any luck, though, they’d be able to steer clear of them man because John didn’t want to have to worry about any suspicious small-town sheriffs or whatever agendas they might be pushing.
“Hope you boys are hungry,” John rumbled, just to see two smiles being aimed his way.
---
Mud squelched around John’s boots, the gunk sucking at him as he stepped through the dark swamp. Tree branches grabbed for him but John ducked out of the way. He kicked past some scraping underbrush and tightened his grip on the shotgun as he glanced around, looking for any sign of movement. Dean was right on his heels, watching their six and checking for anything John might have missed and John was glad that they left Sammy back at the motel. Unlike Dean, Sam didn’t have any problem complaining. Dean was a trooper, though, and together, with a little luck, they might just find out what kind of creature was prowling this area.
John already had a bit of a clue. Drowning on dry land and in a swamp no less pointed towards a water hag. Nasty little creatures that liked to live in bogs and whose favorite MO was to drag their victims under the surface of the brackish water. If caught out, though, they had no problems with smothering people instead which, since a water hag was mostly made up of swamp water and debris, that meant a drowning.
If it was a water hag, too, then it just meant a good bonfire would be all that it would take to get rid of it. John had made sure to bring a make-shift flamethrower with him for when they found the thing.
The forest was eerily quiet, too. Just a little too quiet for John not to think that something was going on. A twig snapped the right and he whirled, raising his shotgun, ready to blast whatever straight on back to Hell. Dean took up position, just a few feet away from him, enough that if they got rushed, the monster would have to chose. Good boy.
“Drop your weapons!” came screaming out from the trees, though, and John jerked his gun away. What the Hell? What emerged from the woods wasn’t a water hag or even anything supernatural, but instead Meersville’s own small-town sheriff, carefully stepping through the underbrush with his pistol raised.
John glanced over at Dean who’d made no move to lower his gun and nodded at him. Dean scowled but he reluctantly brought it back down.
“I said drop your weapons!” The sheriff was close enough for John to make out the pleat in his crisp brown pants and the badge on his standard issue jacket. He was also close enough for John to catch the little bit of fear in his brown eyes.
“Can’t do that, sheriff,” John said back, nice and easy—non-threatening but firm. Like Hell he was going to put down his first line of defense in this place.
“I knew that you were trouble the first time you walked into George’s,” the sheriff retorted, still advancing steadily. “Now drop your weapons. I will shoot.”
It was a stupid thing to say but he couldn’t help himself. “Who says that I won’t shoot you first?”
The sheriff’s nostrils flared and he cocked his gun but he never got a chance to use it. A hand shot up out of the pool of water that he was passing, latching onto his ankle and attempting to drag him down into the mud and hidden depths. The sheriff shouted, his shot going wild as the thing pulled his leg out from under him and dragged him across the ground, digging a trench through the muck.
“Dean!” John barked as he raised his gun and took a shot, the bang echoing through the trees. The shot hit the water and debris flew up, splattering across the landscape as the thing that was dragging the sheriff screamed and let go. Dean followed through on another perfect shot that had the creature screaming louder, sinking back into the depths of the swamp. Skittering backwards, the sheriff took a few shots of his own, 9mm caliber rounds sinking into the swamp after the disappearing creature.
John lowered his gun, glancing around, before taking a few steps towards the sheriff. “You alright?” he called.
The sheriff swung his head to stare at John. “What the fuck was that thing?!”
John nodded at the swamp. “Reason I couldn’t put down my gun, sheriff. Water hag.”
“Water-what?” the sheriff demanded, scrambling to his feet and away from what was very well could have been his grave. And that would be another reason why John tended not to like suspicious small-town sheriffs: They had a bad tendency to just plain walk into traps. Too stupid to see them.
“Creature that lives in swamps,” John replied calmly, checking his gun over. “Likes to kill people.”
“That’s impossible!” The sheriff had his gun trained back on John but John didn’t let it bother him.
He stared the sheriff down. “You saw the hand, sheriff. Or are you going to pretend that you weren’t just dragged across the ground by it?”
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “Just what the Hell did you bring with you?” he hissed like that actually made sense.
John snorted. “I didn’t bring anything. I came here about Don Whitly.”
“Don Whitly’s dead.” The gun was still pointed at John.
“Yeah,” John said, bringing his shotgun up to rest on his shoulder. “And he was a friend of mine.” It was an out and out lie but John was willing to bet that the two bit hick in front of him wouldn’t be able to tell. Whitly, according to the obituary, had been a military man, career, so it was entirely possible.
The sheriff stepped closer. “Dad,” Dean said, his gun still trained on the sheriff. The man froze, staring at Dean, reassessing him as a possible threat.
“Sheriff,” John sighed. “You saw what you saw. And I think that’s the same thing that killed Don.” They really didn’t have time for this—the monster was getting away and bullets only slowed it down for so long.
The sheriff slowly lowered his gun, staring at John and John thought that maybe they were finally getting somewhere but that’s when the world exploded.
Multiple hands shot out of hidden pools of water and, shambling through the trees, came others. “Fuck,” John swore, firing at the closest one. He winged it, sending it reeling, but the others were still coming.
“Jesus Christ,” the sheriff squeaked, firing at the advancing creatures.
Dean was already up and running, heading towards John. “Dad!”
“Run for the car!” John shouted at him, pointing Dean back the way he’d come. “Just run for the goddamned car, Dean!” Fuck, there must have been at least twenty of them, all coming for him and whatever happened to water hags being solitary creatures? John rushed by the sheriff, who’d emptied his clip and had been standing there clicking uselessly. John grabbed him, pulling him along. “Run!”
Dean had already obeyed, flashing through the trees, not stopping for anything that got in his way. John fired at one of the monsters who got too close and kept himself and the sheriff hard on Dean’s tail.
They burst out of the woods, curving around the clearing to where they’d parked the Impala, the sheriff’s Tahoe sitting right beside it. Dean threw himself inside the Impala, slamming the door after him and John followed suit, throwing the car into drive and whipping it around, gunning it for the road. In the rearview mirror, John could see the sheriff right behind him and then nothing but clear woods. Apparently the water hags had stopped at the forest border.
“Fuck,” Dean panted in the passenger seat, grabbing his chest like it was going to help him catch his breath.
John wanted to snap at him to watch his mouth, but he didn’t even have enough air at the moment to get it out. Besides, John figured if there was any situation that deserved a FUBAR designation, this was one of them. They were so fucking screwed. One water hag was easy. An entire nest? Different fucking story. Must have been a fucking breeding ground.
They’d have to call in reinforcements. Maybe Caleb. Caleb liked explosions. He’d be good.
They were in the motel parking lot before John was even aware of where he was driving—he must have been doing at least ninety. At least he knew he wasn’t going to get pulled over, though, not with the sheriff on his tail. That, though, wasn’t going to stop the stupid dumbfuck from flashing his lights. Apparently, he’d thought that they’d gone far enough and maybe that John was cornered now. John wiped at his face as he put the car into park and glanced over at Dean. “Get in the motel room,” he ordered.
Dean glanced out the back window at the sheriff’s SUV. “Dad—”
“That’s an order, Dean! Go make sure Sammy’s safe.” Dean fumbled for the handle and fell out of the car before John had even finished the sentence, running for the room. The sheriff was out of his SUV and gave an abortive yell for Dean to stop but then decided he had bigger fish to fry and headed towards the Impala. John waited until Dean was safely inside the motel room before finally getting out himself.
The sheriff paused as John stood, the few extra inches of height that John had on the other man apparently making him reconsider. “Sheriff,” John said, nodding, and waited for the sheriff’s next move.
John raised his eyebrows when instead of pulling out his gun again like John was half-suspecting he would, the sheriff stuck out his hand. “Paul McKinsey.”
John hesitated before taking the offered hand, shaking it. “John Winchester.”
The sheriff smiled tightly before grabbing a hold of John’s wrist with his other hand and dragging him in close. “Let’s get a few things straight, Winchester,” he hissed, all pretend friendliness falling away. “I don’t like two-bit drifters in my town.”
“Good thing I’m not a two-bit drifter,” John growled in reply, narrowing his eyes. Fucking moron—John should have just let the hags have him.
“I don’t know who you are or what those things were but I’ll tell you right now: I will soon.” A lock of hair was falling into McKinsey’s eyes, fracturing the effect of his glare, and he was still covered in mud. John smirked.
“Good enough,” he said and yanked his hand away from McKinsey’s grip. “Try not to get killed, Sheriff.”
“That a threat, Winchester?” John just smiled, holding out his hands as he backed away, heading for the motel room. It was whatever Sheriff Paul McKinsey wanted to take it as.
---
When John woke up the next morning, Dean was nowhere to be found. Laying on his side on top of the sheets, John stared directly at the other bed where Sammy was still buried under the covers fast asleep but Dean was gone. John jerked awake, sitting up. “Dean?” he called.
Sammy stirred and rolled over. “Dad?” he asked, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.
John jumped out of bed, heading to the bathroom and looking inside. Empty. “Where’s your brother?” John demanded and Sammy sat up straight at his tone, scooting back against the headboard and pulling the blankets up to his chin. Sam darted his eyes towards the covered window that faced the motel’s parking lot, already putting two and two together and John swore as he jogged to the door.
Dean could handle himself. Dean was a very capable thirteen year old, smarter than people twice his age. He also, though, was pretty fucking stupid sometimes and how many times did John have to tell him to make sure someone knew where you were at all times?
John hauled open the door. “DEAN?”
Dean was leaning against the Impala, talking to a man John had never met before and he whipped around at the sound of John’s voice. The man that Dean had been talking to—pony-tailed, mid-twenties and dressed in leather, probably the owner of the Harley Dean’d been admiring—glanced up, too. He was also standing entirely too close to Dean for John’s comfort. John darted over, dropping a hand onto Dean’s shoulder and shoving the boy behind him. “Dad!”
“I’ll deal with you later,” John growled, keeping his full attention on the man in front of him, There’d be time enough to beat Dean’s ass for taking off after he dealt with the man that was currently staring at Dean like he was a nice little side of lamb. It was getting about time to give Dean another talk about strange men. The boy was getting too damn pretty for his own fucking good and was still apparently as naïve about that as a newborn baby. “Can I help you?” he snarled.
The man grinned, rocking back on his heels. “Dean was just admiring my bike,” he said lazily.
“I’m sure he was.” John shoved Dean back towards the open door. “Get inside.”
“But he was just—”
John shoved him harder. “I said get your ass back inside!” The protest drained out of Dean’s face, replaced by fear and he took off, darting back inside the room.
The man chuckled to himself and kicked the ground with the toe of his boot. “I wouldn’t have hurt him, John.”
“And just how the fuck do you know my name?”
“Caleb sent me,” the man replied. “Name’s Tommy Walters.”
“I don’t care what the fuck your name is,” John growled. “What do you mean Caleb sent you?” He’d called Caleb last night, asking the other hunter to come down and help him out. If Caleb had sent this son of a bitch in his place, though, John was going to have to rethink his dealings with the other hunter. John knew Caleb. He didn’t know Tommy fucking Walters.
Tommy Walters shrugged his shoulders. “Caleb called me last night, man. Said he had a big job and was going to need lots of help. Wanted to know if I wanted in.” He jerked his thumb towards the diner just down the street. “There’s a couple more of us here already.” Then he held up his hands. “Listen, man, I don’t want any trouble. I was just cruising around, checking the place out and the kid saw my bike. That’s all. Hell, I didn’t even know he was yours at first. Not until he leaned up against that pretty little car you got there.”
John stared. “How many of you are there?”
Tommy shrugged. “You’d have to ask Caleb that. Right now there’s at least three others that I know of.”
And just like it was a cue, John heard the rumble of Caleb’s truck coming down the road. He swung his attention over to it as it slowly pulled into the parking lot, coming to a stop opposite the Impala. John glared at Tommy, causing him to hold his hands up higher before stalking over to the truck. “Did you call the whole freaking country?” John demanded.
Caleb slid quietly out of the truck, bringing his duffle along with him. “Hey John,” he said quietly, as unruffled as ever as he shut the door behind him.
“Don’t you ‘hey John’ me,” John shouted. “You answer my damn question!”
Caleb winced. “I knew you wouldn’t go for it.”
“Damn right I wouldn’t have—”
“BUT,” Caleb broke in, overriding John, “if there’s as many as you say there is… John, we’re going to need help on this one.”
John closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. It wouldn’t be a great idea to get into an argument in the middle of an open parking lot—not with Sheriff McMoron having it out for him. He took a deep breath, reining in his temper. Caleb was right, of course. Damn man was hardly ever wrong. But still. “You should have told me,” muttered.
“I know,” Caleb said back, just as quietly. “I should have and I’m sorry.”
“I don’t know these guys, Caleb.”
Caleb shook his head and clasped a hand on John’s shoulder. “I only called ones that I trusted.”
“And how many is that?” John asked. He had to know the score here.
“Tommy,” Caleb said, holding up a finger for each one he counted off. “Katherine Norvegger and Brad Holslinger.”
John pressed in closer, looming and making Caleb have to bend backwards to be able to meet him eye to eye. “Little Tommy Walters over there says there’s at least three besides him.”
Caleb stared. “I didn’t call the other one, John. They must have come with somebody else.”
“Fuck,” John swore. He flattened his hand against the side of Caleb’s truck. “Damn it, Caleb, I’ve got kids to watch out for here.” Fucking naïve kids who apparently didn’t have the sense that God gave a damn squid.
Caleb didn’t even flinch, staring John down. “Kids that I love just as much as you, John. I promise that they’ll be safe.”
John stared for a little bit more, judging Caleb’s words. “Okay,” he said finally. “But they don’t come anywhere near my boys.”
Caleb favored John with a little smile. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Okay, then.” John backed up enough to let Caleb stand up straight. He rolled his shoulders and glanced to the side. “Dean’s been wantin’ to see you.” Maybe it was because Caleb was just about as close to Dean’s age as hunters tended to get—certainly closer than John, that was for certain—but Dean had a bit of a hero-worshipping crush on Caleb. And at least Sammy kind of agreed with Dean on this one.
Caleb’s smile widened and he threw his duffle over his shoulder so John started to show him back to room number 6. They passed the grinning Tommy Walters on the way and John paused just long to growl, “Stay away from my boy,” before turning away. He saw Caleb’s understanding grimace to Tommy but decided to ignore it. He’d already gotten his point across.
Over by the office, he saw the sleepy owner of the Luckstar watching them. John gave him a nod, letting him know that things had been taken care of, and entered the motel after Dean.
“He didn’t do anything, Dad,” Dean said quietly as soon as John walked in. Dean was sitting on the bed, next to Sammy and looking positively dejected, his shoulders slumped and his head bowed. Sammy, on the other hand, looked pissed.
John sighed. “But he could have, Dean,” he said.
“But he didn’t,” Sam told the floor. He flicked his eyes up to meet John’s. “Dean’s smarter than that.”
“Sammy,” John warned and Sam turned his head to glower at the wall. John looked back at Dean. “Just stay away from him,” John said. “He’s a hunter and you can’t trust hunters.”
Sam’s head whipped back around and John raised a finger. “Pastor Jim’s different.” Dean frowned and John sighed again. “So’s Bobby.”
“And me, I hope?” Caleb asked.
John glared him down. “The point is,” he told the boys, “You listen to me when I tell you something, are we clear?” The boys nodded—Dean a sharp, emphatic yes, Sammy a sullen maybe but it was good enough for right now. “Good,” he snapped. “Now stay away from other hunters.”
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On to Part 2