Disclaimer: SPN doesn't belong to me and I've never made any money off of it.
Notes: I've been away from writing for a long time, but I recently found a bunch of stories on my computer in various stages of completion and thought I'd post a couple of the finished ones. This one was written all the way back in 2007! While aspects of it have no doubt been disproved on the show or in the books by now, for nostalgic reasons I've chosen to post it just as it was when it was last saved.
DF
Beginnings
A horrible pounding in his head was the first thing he noticed upon waking. It wasn't a pain derived from long hours of hard drinking, or even of all-night research or crying children. No, this was a pain the could only have been earned through misadventure, and John Winchester had to admit that it must have been a pretty damned big calamity to have warranted the agony that was currently driving through his skull.
He wanted nothing more than to curl up and succumb to the pull of blessed darkness, but sheer stubbornness kept him clinging to the threads of consciousness even through the misery it caused him. John was nothing if not obstinate.
He groaned as he tried to open his eyes. The light speared into his brain, sending sharp spikes of pain shooting through even the pounding of the headache. John managed to keep from throwing up, but it took two more tries before he could fully open his eyes.
As his blurred vision focussed, John frowned and struggled to a sitting position.
Where the hell was he?
It was some kind of basement or bunker; that much he could tell from the deep shadows and the large staircase on the far side of the room. There was a musty smell to the place, John realised – more to do with the numerous books covering every horizontal surface than a lack of cleanliness.
The walls were covered in clippings from various newspapers. John was too far away to read them, though he didn't honestly believe his brain capable of the thought necessary to decipher writing at the current moment.
The only illumination came from simple lights mounted on the walls and even these did little more than cut back slightly on the gloom.
Another quick glance revealed a window, but it was covered with heavy iron bars. It was obviously dark outside, and John idly wondered just how much time had passed since he was brought here.
Wherever here was.
A jolt went through John as sudden clarity raced back to him.
Where were his kids?
Head pounding even harder as the adrenaline kicked in, John struggled to his feet. He'd left the boys at the motel. It was only supposed to be a simple hunt – in and out. Now . . . who knew how long he'd been gone and what could have happened to his children in that time. Dean was a good kid, but he was only six, and Sammy was still so small . . .
Blinking against the sudden nausea that rose within him, John reached out to brace himself on a large desk, knocking several books to the floor in the attempt.
Cursing at the noise, John stilled and listened for anything that would indicate that someone had heard him.
Breathing only shallowly, he found his balance and once again started for the staircase.
A sharp clang at the top of the staircase told him that he was out of time. John's gaze darted around the room once more, this time searching for anything that could be used as a weapon.
Nothing.
Grabbing the largest, heaviest book he could find, and struggling once more to remain upright, John turned to face the threat.
Steady, unhurried footfalls heralded the approach of a man. A light flicked on in the stairwell and John had to cover his eyes against the sudden influx of illumination. Groaning against the newest torment to his senses, John felt himself staggering again.
He gritted his teeth, thought of his boys, and willed himself to stand and fight.
"Are you feeling better?" The voice was both kind and strong at the same time. Definitely not what John had been expecting.
Apparently the man did not need an answer, or perhaps the response was so obviously negative that the question had been rhetorical. The man approached John cautiously, as one would a wounded animal, and reached out his hand.
"I'm here to help you. You're okay; you just took a rather strong blow to the head."
John blinked. The stranger didn't look dangerous, but judging based on appearances was usually when you let your guard down enough to allow something to take you by surprise. Stupidity was not a luxury in which John indulged.
"Who the hell are you?" John's voice sounded as though he hadn't spoken in months. He took small comfort in the fact that, despite that, his voice didn't betray his apprehension. He didn't dare inquire about his boys until he knew what kind of threat he faced. There was no way John was going to tip off a potential enemy to the fact that his kids were holed up alone in a crappy motel somewhere.
The man smiled. It was a sad smile that never quite reached his eyes, but there was no malice in it. "My name is Jim, Jim Murphy. Like I said, I'm here to help you."
John scrutinised the figure before him, noting for the first time the cleric's collar around the man's neck. "You a priest?"
"Among other things." Murphy answered lightly before reaching out to John again. "Perhaps you should sit down."
At John's suspicious glare, the priest sighed. "If I wanted to harm you, I could have done so many times already. I know you have questions, but you do look like you're going to fall over any time now. Personally, I don't really want to have to pick you up off the floor."
With not a few misgivings, John knew he couldn't argue with that logic. He shrugged off the offer of assistance, instead shuffling back to sit once more on what he now realised was a narrow cot.
Murphy, for his part, respected John's space and did not interfere.
The two men stared at each other for a brief moment, sizing one another up and deciding just how this strange meeting would progress. It was the priest who broke the stalemate.
"What's your name?"
"I don't have time for this," John growled. "Where the hell am I and how long have I been here?"
"You're in Blue Earth, Minnesota. You've been here almost a full day."
John's blood ran cold. A full day? He couldn't leave the kids for so long, someone would notice – and Dean couldn't look after a toddler for so long . . .
"How -" John wasn't sure where he was going with the question. How did he get there? How was he going to get back? How had a simple hunt gone so horribly wrong?
Luckily, Murphy didn't seem to need anything more to go on. "Some . . . acquaintances of mine found you unconscious in an abandoned factory in Fairmont. When they couldn't revive you at the site, they brought you to me. For rather obvious reasons, they felt it best that neither they nor you be connected to the factory."
John's headache grew. "Why is that?"
Murphy raised an eyebrow. "I think the blood, the sigils and the dead body would require a little explaining, don't you?"
The priest smiled a little at John's expression, again conveying more sadness in that one motion than anything. "Don't worry. That poor woman was dead long before you got to her. It just took a while for her body to know it."
John couldn't help but gape at this man as he re-evaluated his impressions of him. Clearly, the priest knew about the demon he had been forced to kill. Not only did he know about it, but he was helping him.
"What kind of priest are you?" John whispered.
"I'm not so different from you," Murphy answered. He paced to the far end of the room, over to a recess in the wall outlined in an elaborate arch. "I know what's out there and I try to do my part."
He turned back to John with an intensity in his eyes that had John frowning in response. "I help those who, like yourself, have chosen a difficult path. For whatever reason, you have chosen to stare into the darkness. Most others would run, but you fight. What you don't realise is that you don't have to fight alone."
John wasn't certain what to say to that. He settled for glaring suspiciously at the other man.
Shaking his head, Murphy leaned lightly against the wall. "You've become something of a legend yourself, you know."
"I don't know. What are you talking about?"
"There are others like you. Hunters. Almost a year ago, I started hearing about a new man on the scene. According to the stories I was being told, this man would come swooping in and complete the job before vanishing into thin air." Murphy grinned. "Of course, every time this happened, it greatly annoyed the other hunters who had travelled quite a distance to deal with the problem themselves."
John rubbed at his temples, trying to alleviate the pounding in his skull. "Where are you going with this?"
"You're good at what you do. You did all this without help. No one knew anything about you other than the somewhat conflicting reports of the people you saved and the clerks of the motels where you stayed." Murphy snorted. "The only things they knew for certain were that you drove a large, black car and that you travelled with children."
John was on his feet before he could register being in motion. He crossed the room and had his hands on Murphy's throat almost before he could draw breath. "If you hurt my kids . . ."
Fear never reached Murphy's eyes. The slight man reacted more quickly than John had anticipated; a flurry of movement registered before John found himself on the floor, once again holding his head against the pounding pain that threatened to overcome him.
Murphy knelt beside him. "You're injured. On a normal day, I have no doubt you're a formidable opponent. I'm a fairly good judge of character and I'd like to think you wouldn't have harmed me, but nevertheless . . . don't think that just because I wear a collar, I can't defend myself."
He reached out and offered John a hand. "Your children are safe."
Intense relief washed over John as he accepted the assistance. "Where are they?"
"Upstairs sleeping," came the simple reply. "Like I said, the only things we knew about you were that you drove in a big, black car and had children with you. It didn't take a genius to figure out that you wouldn't hunt far away from them. The hunters who found you came to the conclusion that the kids were nearby, and picked them up on the way out."
"Picked them up?" John's face hardened. Someone had gone in and simply, what, told Dean that he was a friend of daddy's and to come along? Dean should have known better; he was almost seven –
Almost seven, left alone to watch a toddler, and then told that his dad was hurt. John's anger melted away. Sometimes he forgot that Dean was so young.
"Feel like an ass yet?" Murphy's voice cut into his thoughts. "Good. You should. This is no life for children."
"Excuse me?" John looked up to see the other man watching him with that freakishly intense stare.
"Kids shouldn't have to deal with the things we know. They should be sheltered, safe -"
"I tried sheltered and safe," John answered through gritted teeth. "We had a normal life and they almost died." He shook his head. "This is the only way I can protect them. They have to learn how to fight, how to protect themselves and until they can, they need me to do it for them."
Murphy nodded in sympathy. "What would have happened to them if you had died there tonight? No one knew they were there, did they? What would they do?"
"Not going to happen." Winchester stubbornness shone through once more.
"Don't be naive. You know as well as I do the risks that come with the job." Murphy sat on the corner of his cluttered desk and sighed. "Which brings me back to my initial point - you don't have to do this alone."
"So you've said," John responded with a small smirk, "but I really don't see how a priest can help me fight poltergeists."
"Would you not have benefited from the knowledge of what you faced tonight?"
The statement cut John sharper than any knife. It was supposed to be an easy hunt. All the evidence had pointed to a young woman being the victim of possession. John had dealt with such cases before and since nothing had seemed out of place, he had felt confident he could handle it.
He had been sorely mistaken.
The woman had looked a little like Mary. She was perhaps a little older, her face more creased with laugh-lines, but it was her golden hair that had stopped John cold. No matter how innocent or carefree the human had been, however, now she was dangerous. Now she was inhabited by evil.
The exorcism rite that had served him so well before had been beyond ineffective. The demon had laughed- laughed as John read unerringly the Latin phrases on the ear-marked page of his journal. The human form worn by the demon did nothing to soften the malicious presence within it.
The protective sigils John had so painstakingly drawn on the floor seemed to amuse the evil being even as it taunted him. It knew every fear, every doubt in John Winchester's body and it used them against him. It knew about Mary, callously describing the fear and torment she had felt in her final moments.
And it knew about his kids.
The demon told John, almost gleefully, that his sons were part of something more, that their lives would be full of anguish and pain and that not even John would be able to save them from the fate that awaited them.
John had seen red.
He attacked, this time not with words, but with weapons. The demon had responded in kind, effortlessly flinging John into the wall with a wave of its hand.
John's ears rang from the bone-jarring blow and he just barely managed to keep hold of his gun, but the demon wasn't finished yet. With another, almost negligent gesture, John found himself airborne once more. This time, the impact was so strong, John himself couldn't believe he had survived.
Blood flowed freely from his forehead, obscuring his vision in a red haze. He couldn't breathe through the pain; couldn't focus on anything but the growing agony that was his entire world.
Some small part of him raged at his own inaction- railing at him to get up and fight. John couldn't even blink as the demon walked closer, grinning through a cascade of blonde hair.
Something had happened then that John had not expected. The demon had him at its mercy, helpless and almost immobile with pain, and yet it stopped. The evil being frowned, eyes flashing black for a moment as it turned to look over its shoulder.
John heard the sound of approaching footfalls – more than one person arriving on the scene. They were only going to come to their deaths.
The wounded man blinked more blood out of his eyes and reached into his pocket, hoping his flask of holy water was still intact and knowing it would have little effect in any case.
The demon turned its gaze back to him and smiled. John felt himself being pulled to his feet in its inhuman grip as he struggled to keep a grip on both his gun and the flask.
The demon pulled him close – so close that John could smell on its breath the remains of its last meal.
And then there was pain. John had never before felt physical pain so intense.
The footsteps came closer, running now and John realised they must have heard the altercation. There was no more time.
With his last reserves of strength, John flicked the lid off the flask and thrust the vial into the demon's face, dousing it in holy water.
The demon's scream filled the room as it steamed and hissed horribly. Bubbling blisters rose on its skin, and its eyes turned black once more as it growled at John.
John wasted no more time. He upended the entire flask into the demon's still-open mouth, cringing at the horrible screams that followed. The demon dropped him and John did his best to roll clear.
His head swam and he fought both to swallow down his growing nausea and to remain conscious.
Booted feet came into view, their owners reaching down to grab the demon as it screamed and raged.
Through rapidly darkening vision, John watched as the pair hastily drew symbols on the floor around the demon, effectively imprisoning it.
John heard the Latin exorcism chanted over the curses and threats, noting with the disinterest of the semi-conscious that it was most certainly not the same one he had tried.
Then the world went black.
"She didn't make it," John muttered, having already figured that out from the priest's earlier statements.
"The demon left her, but her injuries were too severe," Murphy elaborated. "Your injuries were quite severe as well. That was no low-level demon you faced. Had you known the proper exorcism, you might not have been in so dire a situation."
"That's where you come in, isn't it?" John didn't try to hide the sarcasm from his tone. "The demon-fighting priest?"
"As I said, I help where I can." Murphy sighed. "Look, I'm not naïve. I know you aren't leaving the hunt and I know that, despite what could happen, you aren't going to leave your boys somewhere safe while you engage in such destructive behaviour."
He raised a hand to forestall John's objections. "I have connections in the hunting world. There are others out there who have faced things, the likes of which you haven't even imagined. We are in the middle of a war, of sorts. It isn't one you'll hear about on the six-o'clock news, but it is a war, nonetheless. We try our best to help one another survive it."
"I've already met some people," John admitted. "A psychic, a couple researchers here and there -"
"Good, good," Murphy approved. "It's a start. And since you're here and your recovery will take some time, I can teach you more. I have access to a number of rituals, charms and exorcisms and I can help you learn when to employ them. I can put you in contact with others who can teach you more. I have a friend in Colorado who knows more about creatures of the dark than anyone."
"Why are you doing this?" John asked, feeling slightly overwhelmed and hardly daring to hope this strange man might actually have the means to help him find Mary's killer.
"Because it's the right thing to do," Murphy responded. "Because we need all the help we can get." He sighed. "And because I don't want to see those little boys without a father."
John's breath caught in his throat. It had been close. Too close. The thought of his sons left alone, never knowing that their daddy wasn't coming home was almost too much to bear. He choked back the sudden surge of emotion and looked at Murphy.
"I want to see my sons."
Murphy nodded. "They're upstairs. I'll take you to them."
The other man headed to the doorway, pausing only to make sure John was capable of following and seeming to know the other man would balk at the offer of assistance.
The trip up the stairs was excruciating, leaving John weak and sweat-drenched from the effort. Murphy motioned for silence and waved John over to the communion table.
There behind the table, huddled together in a nest of blankets, were Dean and Sam.
John felt intense relief wash over him and he reached out to steady himself on the edge of the table.
He stayed like that for a while, watching his peacefully slumbering sons, before John finally allowed himself to relax.
He turned back to the priest and hesitated only a moment before offering the other man his hand. "Thank you."
Murphy – Jim – smiled and shook the proffered hand warmly.
John tuned back to his sons, so innocent in sleep. "I need to know everything," he said softly, not wanting to wake them. "I need to be able to protect them and that means knowing everything that's out there and how to kill it."
Jim nodded. "I'll tell you everything I know." He sighed lightly. "I suppose you'll be staying up here tonight? I'll bring you some blankets."
The priest turned before John had even replied, leaving the eldest Winchester to wonder if the other man ever asked a question without already knowing the answer.
"Murphy," John called softly, drawing the priest's attention once more, though his own gaze never wavered from his sons. "John Winchester."
He could almost feel the other man's smile. "Glad to meet you, John Winchester."
There were the soft sounds of movement and then John was alone with his children.
John sighed and rubbed his hand over his stubble-covered face. He wasn't certain what he was getting himself into, but he would do what he had to in order to protect his family.
He would ensure their safety until his dying breath, no matter what the cost.
This was the only way.