Well, I'm back with another story. This is more of my usual thing, namely pre-series. It takes place between Wednesday, November 12, 2003 and Friday, November 14th, 2003.
That year was a important year for the Winchesters. John had learned about Adam sometime in the past 12 months, but failed to tell Sam and Dean. Dean was coping with his separation from Sam, and then in the Spring of 2003, had his heartbroken by Cassie Robinson. Sam had finished his freshman year at Stanford and started his sophomore year. In just a few short weeks from when this story is set, Sam's friend Brady is possessed by a demon who introduces Sam to Jessica Moore and ultimately changes the course of his life. Since the Show suggests that Sam and his father haven't spoken since the fight they had the day Sam left for college, their interaction in this story makes this slightly AU, but hopefully I've managed to tie everything into the accepted canon. Without giving too much away, nothing in this story would change the Show as it's been aired. (I hope that's a bit enough hint.) Let me know how I did. So, without further ado...
John pulled the black truck to a stop behind the abandoned tire warehouse out on Rim Rock Road. All their research suggested that this was where the witch was holed up. She was older and more powerful that the witches John had dealt with in the past and he would have liked more intel, but they would have to make do. He had been chasing her across three different states over the past three weeks, but her body count was rising. There had been three more men killed last week, and tonight he was going to take her out before she could kill anyone else. It was still early, just after 8 pm, but the sun set early in November in Nevada and the location was remote from the town, so he decided there was no point in waiting. John glanced into the passenger seat where his eldest son sat bathed in moonlight. Dean was watching him, alert and ready, waiting for direction.
"Tell me the plan again," John ordered softly.
"I go around front, you take the back. We find the witch, gank her and torch her book and altar." Dean recited, sounding far too casual for John's taste. Just because a witch was human, didn't mean that you could afford to underestimate one. That was a good way to end up dead. And this witch was especially crafty.
"If you find her, don't let her see you. Go for a headshot before she can cast a spell, then make sure she's really dead and torch the book and the body" Dean was nodding, but he still didn't seem concerned. Fighting the urge to send Dean back to the motel and handle this himself, John opened the door and stepped out into the cold. It was only a few degrees above zero tonight. Walking around to the other side, he watched as Dean expertly checked his weapon and loaded the first round.
"Do you have everything?"
Dean flashed a cocky smile and patted the small duffle bag he had slung over one shoulder.
"Salt, lighter fluid, holy water." John knew that Dean was a skilled and experienced hunter. Certainly he'd trained his son to be an excellent soldier, so he could trust Dean to follow orders. But it didn't make him any less uneasy about this hunt. Witches were unpredictable.
"Alright, I'll give you ten minutes to circle the perimeter and gain access. Watch for traps, and stay alert."
"Yes sir," Dean responded and then disappeared effortlessly into the shadows to make his way around the front of building.
John forced himself to count down the full ten minutes before he grabbed his own bag, picked the lock and crept into the rear of the building. Careful to make no sound despite his heavy boots, he slowly made his way towards the set of offices that lined one side of the back of the facility. He was confident that the witch would have her altar set up in one of those rooms, rather than out in the open warehouse area. Of course, he hadn't said as much to Dean. If Dean found out that he'd been sent out front to keep him as far from the witch as possible - well let's just say John knew his son would not be very happy. But that was part of the problem. Dean hadn't been happy in a long time. Oh he put on a good front, but ever since Sam left last year, he'd been different.
At first he'd been really quiet, spending his free time alone and drinking. Then he'd started with that devil-may-care act, all bravado and charm, running around with every girl who would have him. That came to an end this past Spring. John had watched helplessly as Dean got his heartbroken for the first time by that girl Cassie in Ohio. It was a hard, and necessary lesson, this life didn't allow for relationships, but it had been difficult seeing how broken up Dean was about her. Now, although Dean seemed to have his focus back and his head in the game, his eldest seemed restless. Dean followed orders and got the job done with ruthless efficiency, but without Sammy to look out for, Dean was too willing to take risks, to jump out guns blazing with a dangerous disregard for his own safety. John was worried.
Dragging his thoughts back to the hunt, John suppressed a sigh and pushed his concerns for his son to the back of his mind. Redoubling his focus, he felt a change in the air and smelled the faint scent of candles. Even more cautiously than before, he peeked around a corner. The witch was there, lighting candles on her dark altar. It didn't look like she'd begun whatever spell she was setting up for, but with witches you could never be too careful. They may be human, but they were the worst kind of unnatural monster, having made a deal with a demon for their powers. The good thing, is that it was possible to kill them if you could take them by surprise with a well placed shot. John lifted his gun to make the kill when the witch spoke.
"Hello hunter," she spat, turning slightly to look at him before going back to whatever she was doing. "Dammit," he cursed silently in his head. All hope for stealth gone, John stepped from behind the corner, gun still rock steady as he moved cautiously towards her. She continued speaking, completely unconcerned about the gun pointed at her as she continued her preparations.
"You and your partner have been chasing me for a while, haven't you? It's been fun, but it's starting to cramp my style." She turned fully towards him now, a nasty smirk on her pretty face. "So, I've decided to take a little vacation, and thanks to your partner I have everything I need." She gestured with a shiny silver knife towards the bowl on her altar. In the light from the flickering candles, John could see blood staining the blade. His heart jumped in his throat, worried about his son, but he kept his face blank and his gun firmly aimed at her head.
"I needed the blood of an enemy, you see," she said conversationally, laying the knife down and picking up the bowl. "So I trapped your friend and stabbed him in the heart." She smiled with an evil grin and then mockingly looked concerned. "It's a shame, he was such a pretty young man, but if it's any consolation, he died quickly." She extended her other hand towards the bowl and opened her mouth when John pulled the trigger. The bullet stopped short of her, bouncing off some kind of invisible shield to fall to the ground with a soft clink. She giggled at him.
"Really - you thought I wouldn't be prepared for you? Silly man. I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer." John's mind was racing, he needed to kill her quickly before she cast her spell. He had no apprehension about whatever suffering she had planned for him, but he needed to check on his son. Glancing at her altar he had an idea.
Once again, she raised her hand to drop the ingredients into the bowl, but before she could speak, John fired a second time. His slug hit the center of the large book sitting propped on her altar. It was a bit of a guess, but most witches bind themselves to their demon partners through their grimoire or spell book, so he was hoping hurting the book would hurt her. It must of worked because she dropped the metal bowl with a clang, and clutched at her chest. Without stopping to think, John shot her, his bullet making a neat hole in her forehead. As her body fell, the candles flared wildly and then went out as a sulphur laced wind swept through the room. The hair on his arms was standing up from the feeling of evil, but nothing more happened.
Still alert and watchful, John approached her body with caution. Witches, by definition, had a lot of tricks up their sleeves, and she could still be warded. He stood over her body and empties another few rounds into her head and torso. Confident that she was dead for the moment, his worry for Dean surged. Not taking his eyes off the witch's body, he pulled out his phone and dialed Dean. There was no answer and the call went to voicemail. For a brief moment he hesitated, should he go look for his son, or finish the job in front of him?
He bit down on his rising fear for his boy. It was possible that, despite the multiple bullets in her, that this was a ruse, so he couldn't take a chance. John had to hope that Dean simply had his phone on silent for the hunt. Working as quickly as possible he dragged the bloody body into a clear area on the concrete floor. He grabbed the witch's spell book and some of the more evil objects from her altar and dumped them on top of her. A quick search around found some broken crates that he added to the pile, then digging some salt and lighter fluid out of his bag, he lit her body on fire. Staying only long enough to be sure that the witch was fully engulfed and that the fire wasn't going to spread, John moved off in search of Dean.
The warehouse was large, but it had been mostly cleared out when it was abandoned, so there wasn't much to see once John moved through the door separating the offices in the back from the main space. There were just a few enormous, but empty shelves, some broken crates and piles of cardboard, but otherwise not a lot to see. The almost full moon cast a decent amount of light into the cavernous space through a couple of well placed skylights. John stuck to the shadows around the perimeter of the room but his rising sense of panic had fractured his normal vigilance. He had yet to reach Dean by phone and he had searched more than half of the warehouse space without finding his son. He just needed to lay eyes on Dean, sooner rather than later.
Despite the fact that the witch was dead, John kept his gun in hand as he broke one of his own rules and called Dean's name in a harsh whisper. John forced himself to keep a steady and efficient pace as he cleared the building. There was probably a perfectly good reason why he hadn't found or heard from Dean. But so help him, if the kid was goofing around somewhere, John was going to tear a strip off of him that Dean wouldn't soon forget.
Fifteen minutes later and his search of the warehouse was complete. Dean was still missing. He jogged back through the empty building. Checking that the witch and her paraphernalia were still contained and burning, John exited, praying to Mary that he'd find their son safe and sound in the warming vehicle. As he strode towards the hulking black truck, John strained to see a Dean shaped silhouette against the shadows. The passenger door of the truck was open, but as he came around the vehicle, sprawled in the dirt beside the tire was a familiar body. His heart almost stopped.
"No, no, no, no, please no…," John heard himself say, his voice thick with fear and emotion. He closed the gap between them in a few strides and dropped to his knees, hands hovering over his son. Dean was lying in a sticky pool of blood, his shirt was soaked through from a gaping wound on his chest. John knew instinctively that no one could lose that much blood and still be alive, but his trembling fingers looked for a pulse anyway. The skin on Dean's neck already felt the same temperature as the cold night air. Dean was face up on the ground, his eyes open and lifeless, staring up at the stars. The witch must have surprised him as he was getting into the truck because his battered, old leather jacket that Dean loved so much was sitting on the seat. John reverently closed his son's eyes, then pulled Dean up by the shoulders and hauled his boy to his chest. Dean's head lolled against his shoulder and John sat in the dirt, stroking his eldest son's hair while tears ran down his cheeks and soaked into the collar of Dean's shirt.
John had no idea how long he had been sitting in the dirt sobbing, but his eyes were swollen, his hands were frozen and his back hurt. Of course this was nothing compared to the ache in his heart. It had been a long time since he had held his son so tenderly. John knew he wasn't an affectionate man. Only Mary had been able to bring out his softer side. "Oh God...Mary. I'm so sorry," thought John brokenly. He'd let Dean, Mary's first born, die and driven away Sam her baby, with his single minded obsession and stubbornness. How could he have let this happen? He had lost his whole family, the only thing in his life worth a damn. The pain was crushing, and briefly John wished he was dead too. But he couldn't do that to Sam. Maybe things weren't in a great place with his rebellious son, but he couldn't leave him an orphan, unprotected and alone. Thinking of Sam, John knew he needed to move, to get Dean back to the motel and then call Sammy. Although John wasn't sure how he was going to face him, Sam deserved a chance to say goodbye to his brother.
Pushing himself awkwardly to his feet, John carried Dean's body to the truck. With a gentleness that would have shocked Dean had he been alive to see it, John tucked his precious cargo into the passenger seat. Walking around the congealing pool of his son's blood, John got into the truck and headed back to the motel.
