Title: Heaven's Intentions
Author: ColorMeContented
Disclaimer: Supernatural and pretty much everything here belong to their respective owners. All I have is the one OC and plot.
Rating: M for mature audiences only
Warnings: Fluff, booze, possible eventual slash, swearing, blasphemy and the like, violence and emotional distress, possible spoilers if you aren't up to date with season 9… I think that's all?
Author's note: So I was sitting around bored in math during finals week 'n I was all like "Imma write me a story!" This is my first Destiel but definitely not my first story, reviews are love friends, I live on reviews, I eat them for breakfast lunch and dinner, don't let me starve! But most of all… please enjoy!
And the whole thing is unBeta'd so all mistakes are my own… sorry…
Prologue
The air was cold, even inside, nipping at the exposed skin of his face and neck. A demonic shriek rang through the halls and John Winchester bolted. He should have been more worried about his steel-toed boots clunking against the hard concrete acting as a beacon for every demonic soul, shouting "Here he is! Come and rip his lungs out!" But John didn't care, pushing himself harder against his fatigue and away from the hot breath that raked down the back of his neck.
He yelped, his toe caught on a dip in the rugged floor which seemed to cackle in delight at his misfortune, but it was not the mockery of concrete that caused his breath to come in heavy ragged heaves but the rushing cloud of smoke and the glimmer of eager grins from within it.
John cringed and scuttled back, hoping to reach his feet before he was overtaken. His eyes slipped shut; he would never see his boys again, would never teach Dean to ride a bike, or watch Sam take his first steps.
He hadn't noticed that his eyes were shut, but when he opened them the blood ran from his face and his pupils blew wide if only from fear. John could feel the brush of the smoke against his face as it lingered, for the most part, an inch from his nose. He had to do something! Get up; run, at least put some dignity into his death; but no words passed his lips, his muscles stood frozen.
"Where iss the book?" The demon hissed, knowing that the writhing form of black smoke and dust disturbed John Winchester immeasurably.
The old hunter shifted uneasily attempting to conceal better the tattered knapsack slung over his shoulder and concealed in the folds of his outermost coat.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about," he stuttered, bemused, a smirk playing on his lips, "but I do know that if I die here you can't make me help you find it." His smirk grew wider, a guttural groan ripped through the creature before him. John chuckled, It's frustrated with me.
He made a slow move to stand up, throwing his hands up in front of him as the demon lurched forward threateningly.
"All I'm saying is," John's eyes shifted anxiously, searching for any and every possible escape route. There were none. His only option was to turn and run. "That maybe we could help each other, I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine." He added delicately.
John slid one blood stained foot back slowly; the creature did not notice.
"Go on," The demon drawled, obviously not thrilled to be working with a hunter, particularly the one who had just tried to send him/her… it, back to Hell.
John glanced around once again, still seeing nothing that could possibly offer him aid. But he would get home again, demon be damned. He. Would. Get. Home.
He paused a moment, as though to answer, as his right hand delved suddenly into the left inside pocket of his outermost coat and swung.
The holy water found its mark, burning and eating away at the now enraged pillar of smoke (if that were even possible). The demon wailed and gnashed its teeth, barreling after John who had wasted no time in his flight.
The shattering of glass reverberated off the trees surrounding the penitentiary as John flung his body haphazardly through the weather beaten material. Impressively, the old hunter ignored the gashes marring his flesh and splinters of glass protruding from his body in favor of hitting the ground in a sprint.
The wailing of angered Hell spawn faded quickly behind him but John kept up the pace, bringing the knapsack from his back to cradle it against his chest. His legs were lead anchors beneath him in his own ocean of unconsciousness that threatened to swallow him up. Then he collapsed, holding himself up a moment against the nearest tree before sinking to the ground in agony, knowing that he was finally safe. Or as safe as a hunter can be. He mused sourly.
As soon as each shard of bloodied glass was removed from his flesh and his wounds began to piss blood once again, John reached into the knapsack, fishing around for his cell and hoping that it wasn't broken.
He sighed in relief as he felt the familiar cool plastic of his brick of a phone in his hand and dialed the only number he'd memorized so far. After a moment of painful expectation the line cleared and John was met with a tired yawn and a gruff voice.
"Damnit John, it's one in the morning! I finally got Dean to go to bed – the goddamn phone got the kid right back up!"
John cringed as the man's voice bounced around in his head, that demon's screeching had really done a number on his eardrums.
"I know Bobby, I know, I'm sorry. Do you think you could spare a minute to come and get me? Bitch got me good."
For a moment the line was dead and John thought Bobby'd hung up on him, Lord knew he deserved it, running off on his own like that. He heard Bobby sigh. "Listen up Dean," the old man said away from the phone, "I'm gonna go pick up yer daddy. I want you to stay vigilant here 'n take care of yer brother, got that?" John heard the pipsqueak voice of his son celebrating his freedom in the background and winced. He hated leaving the boys alone, it damn near killed him every time, but he took those feelings and shoved them to the back of his mind, much in the same way that Dean would twenty years later.
Nodding his head solemnly John grunted a 'Thanks Bobby' before hanging up the phone. He leaned his head back against the cool bark of the tree beneath which he rested and pressed a hand flush to one of the many cuts and gashes. With his other hand he picked out the book and held it up to the dwindling light.
It was old, leather bound and so worn and frayed about the edges that John wasn't sure how it hadn't fallen apart the moment he touched it. strange runes, the crevices of which seemed to glow blue out of the corner of his eye, covered the spine of the small book as well as the front and back covers while larger, more defined, etchings encircled it widthwise, this wrapping capped in a lock.
The thing was fragile and John was certain he could shatter it with the smallest effort but as he put one hand on either side of the lock his muscles strained against it as it refused to yield to him. John was puzzled, not ready to give up on trying to open the book, but puzzled both by the flimsy leather's unwarranted strength and the wonder of why he'd stolen it in the first place. He hadn't been looking for it per se; the job was originally flushing out a conglomeration of Hell spawn from the abandoned prison then going home to his boys for Christmas, a snowflake landed on his cheek. Damnit, if Bobby didn't show up soon it was going to be a cold night. John studied the book in his lap.
It had called him.
And, no, it didn't whisper him further into the labyrinth penitentiary with sweet irresistible promises but calmly whispered to him from that innermost cell where the demons kept their prizes. It called him so he took it, simple as that.
John's eyes narrowed, shying away from the burning sensation the bright headlights of his car gave him, and smiled.
"Four hours from Sioux Falls to here, he made pretty good time." John mused. He stashed the book in his bag and hoisted himself off the ground, sauntering over to Bobby, eager to hit the road and see his boys.
