The lady behind the counter smiled as John walked in, holding Dean by the hand, who in turn held Sammy's hand.
John led them to the children's section, which was furnished with preschooler sized tables and chairs.
"You and Sammy find some books to look at." John instructed his older son in low tones. "I'll be over there," he pointed across the open room. "doing some research."
Dean nodded. "Yes sir."
"Keep an eye on Sammy."
He was turning and walking away even as Dean answered.
John located the card index and flipped through until he finds one labeled "Fire - local." There was a listing of newspaper articles, most of which had been converted to microfilm by this time. He jotted down the dates, moving over to the reference section. He quickly located and scanned the articles still in paper copy. Two seem eerily similar to the case he was currently working, so he copied those.
He moved on to the microfilm, finding the first article he checks also fitting the spirit's pattern of burning restaurants after hours with only a manager inside, so he prints it out. He skipped several others which detail house fires, until he found one more about a Burger King arson. He read the article, but the circumstances just didn't fit with the others, so he moved on.
He looked over a few times to find the boys flipping through picture books or Dean reading Sam a story. He turned once and didn't see them, started to get worried until he saw Dean leading Sam back from the bathroom.
A dozen fire articles later, and he was about to pass on reading another housefire article, until the sub-headline caught his eye.
Guthrie Woman Killed in House Fire
Husband, 6 Month Old Baby Survive
He enlarged the article and read it. By the end, the hair on the back of his neck was standing on end.
Especially because the article mentioned that the fire occurred December 30, 1983.
He looked at the time, surprised to find it's a little after three o'clock already. He was a little surprised that the boys hadn't come over to tell him they're hungry, but Dean probably packed a snack in his backpack.
He went back to the beginning of his list, and read each article about house fires. After working his way all through the list of local fires, he expanded his search to any local police blotters he can find. There was a mention of another instance, two counties over, in which a mother called and reported an intruder in the house, but when the officers arrived within two minutes, as they were just leaving another call nearby, they found no sign of anyone.
She was home alone with a six month old baby.
It was also in 1983.
He spread his search again, looking for any police records he can find from 1983.
He found another report, in June of that year, of a man killed by an intruder who was apparently attempting to kidnap a six month old baby.
What was the demon doing with those babies?
He realized something else that troubled him even further.
In each case, the parent was killed because they found someone with their baby.
How many had not found the demon with their baby?
The lights in the library dimmed, and John automatically looked over toward his sons, making sure there was no demonic presence around them, before his mind registered the announcement being made over the PA system.
" ... Branch Public Library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring any materials you wish to check out to the circulation desk at this time ... "
Little Sam was asleep, his head on his folded arms on the table. Dean sat sentry over his younger brother, the whites of his eyes crossed with so many tiny red lines they looked like roadmaps of Georgia, but he wouldn't go to sleep until Sammy was somewhere safe, somewhere out of the public eye.
Dean would probably be asleep by the time they got back to the motel, in the backseat with his arms curled around Sam. John felt a twinge of guilt over the fact they'd both missed dinner again, but he would make it up to them with a big breakfast.
When they reached the room, John unlocked and propped open the motel room door, pulling back the covers on one of the beds before he returned to the car. He scooped up both sleeping boys at once, easier than trying to pry Sam out of Dean's grip, and carried them inside. He put them on the bed and pulled the covers up. Dean's eyes popped open, but closed again when John softly shushed him.
The following day was Sunday, and the Shoney's next to the motel offered an all you can eat breakfast buffet. Dean ate enough bacon and eggs to send an adult man into a cholesterol crisis before stuffing at least half a dozen napkin-wrapped muffins into his backpack. Sam was fascinated by the colors of the assorted fruits, and wanted to try a bite of all of them.
Afterwards, they returned to the motel, because John unfortunately couldn't do much else. The library was closed on Sunday, so he made some calls to some of his contacts, asking if anyone had heard of anything strange in 1983 involving a baby about 6 months old. Dean and Sam played on the floor with army men and Legos, eventually falling asleep to an old Johnny Whatshisname Tarzan movie.
The following morning, John fed them cereal before putting on his one good suit. He told Dean he was going to see someone about a job, and Dean nodded his understanding.
"Be sure to double lock the door behind me." John reminded as he left the room, putting the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside of the door. He rambled off the usual list of instructions to not answer the phone, make sure who was there before unlocking the door, watch out for Sammy.
Mary would have his hide for leaving her children alone at that age, but Dean was the most responsible seven year old John had ever met.
And he certainly didn't trust anyone else with his boys.
"Mr. Gallagher?" John flashed a badge quickly, putting it back in his pocket before the man could look too closely. "I'm John Winslow, insurance investigator. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you about the fire in your home in 1983."
The man frowned in confusion. "But the insurance claim was settled a long time ago. A couple months after the fire."
"Oh, no." John shook his head. "I'm investigating a fire that happened nine days ago. But the house that burned this time was traced back to the same electrical contractor who wired your house, so I'm looking from that angle."
"Then you're looking in the wrong place." The man huffed and turned away, starting to close the door.
John shoved a foot inside the door frame, keeping the man from shutting him out. "Why would you say that?"
"Because the fire that killed my wife wasn't electrical," Mr. Gallagher regarded John with suspicion. "No matter what you fire investigators want to say."
"But the official fire marshal report concluded the fire was electrical." John tilted his head. "You don't agree?"
"That's because no one believes me when I tell them there was someone else in my house that night." Mr. Gallagher huffed. "They didn't find a man's body, so they told me I was in shock, I imagined everything. My poor traumatized brain misinterpreted the information or some such crap. But I know what I saw, and what I saw was a man standing in the nursery and my wife on the ceiling and then the man just vanished. He didn't walk past me; he didn't jump out of the window, just one minute he was there and the next he wasn't."
"Did you see what he looked like?" John asked.
"It was dark, and ... " Gallagher shook his head. "I was in a panic, trying to get to Andy, and obviously freaked out over seeing my wife on the ceiling. I can just tell you that he was, oh, maybe a little taller than I am, average build, sandy hair, very ordinary looking, except for his eyes. It was probably just the way the fire reflected in them, but it looked like his eyes glowed yellow."
"Probably was the fire." John nodded. "I've seen some men's eyes look orange in the middle of a fire. But how did your wife get on the ceiling?"
"Believe me, I wish I knew." Gallagher shook his head.
"But your son, he survived?" John continued. "And he's doing well?"
"Yeah," Gallagher looked over his shoulder toward somewhere in the house John couldn't see. "Yeah, he's fine."
"That's something to be thankful for." John reached out to shake the man's hand. "Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you. I hope you find someone who believes you about the fire, one day."
"You believe me?" The man's eyes widened hopefully.
"I can't say what you did or didn't see that night." John shrugged. "But I've learned that sometimes things happen that no one can explain."
He waved in farewell and left Mr. Gallagher frowning in the doorway.
Four days later, John waited until the boys were asleep upstairs before he put the case file on Bobby's table.
"I've found five so far, including Sam." John announced, spreading out notes and photos. "All little boys, born in 1983, within an 800 mile radius that Lawrence seems to be near the center of. All had something happen in their home on the night of their six month birthday. Three of them, the mother died in a housefire. One, the mother called the police to report an intruder, but nothing was found. One, the father was killed by an apparent intruder."
"So what do you think the connection is?" Bobby asked, uncapping a beer.
"I think whatever it is, demon, shapeshifter, or something we haven't discovered yet, is the children's father." John swigged straight from a bottle of Jim Beam.
"That doesn't even make sense." Bobby frowned. "Why would he want to kill their mothers? If he was the father, why would he leave the children? Why go to the trouble to break into the house, kill one of the parents, and then leave the baby with no guarantee that the kid would survive the fire? It would have made more sense if the … whatever he is took the kid, and let the firemen think the body was completely burned up."
"I don't know!" John snapped. "I'm still trying to get past the fact Mary was molested by a demon and that one of my boys is actually a cambion!"
"Well you can quit trying to get over it!" Bobby barked back at him. "Sam is not a cambion! Remember the lore? Cambions present as stillborn babies who suddenly seem to come back to life. You've told me yourself that Sam was born squalling! Besides that, have you looked in a damn mirror? Sam looks just like you, ya idjit! There's no way that is not your kid! He has your nose, your mouth, your chin, hell, he's even got your hair! His eyes are shaped like Mary's, but the color is a mixture of hers and yours! Dean doesn't look like you, so does that mean you think Dean ain't yours either?"
"No, Dean looks like Mary." John sighed and took another gulp of whiskey. He shoved a stack of pictures in front of Bobby. "But you can't tell me all of those boys don't look just alike."
"No, they really don't." Bobby spread the photos out side by side and shook his head. "The Gallagher kid and the Weems kid look alike, sure. But neither of them really looks like the Miller kid, or the Carey kid. There are some superficial resemblances, as in they all have brown hair, and three of them have brown eyes. But if you look at bone structure, facial features, that kind of thing, there's no more resemblance than any other kids that age. And none of them really look like Sam. I see more resemblance between Sam and Dean than Sam and any of these kids."
"You really think so?" John asked softly, his eyes filling with tears.
"I'm positive." Bobby assured. "There's got to be some connection that we just haven't found. But I would bet everything I have that Sam is your son, and that the demon or whatever it is, isn't the father of any of them."
John shoved angrily at his eyes, tossed back another shot, and didn't answer.
"Leave me copies of everything." Bobby told the younger man. "I'll keep working on finding a connection."
John nodded and staggered up the stairs.
John checked in at the front desk when he returned to the motel to find a message from Caleb waiting for him. He made his way back to the room, noting the Do Not Disturb sign still on the door. He knocked loudly, announcing "It's me!" before opening the door with his key.
The door only opened a few inches, just enough for John to be greeted by the sight of a seven year old holding a shotgun full of rock salt.
"What's the code word?" Dean demanded.
"Cybertron." John supplied, smiling as Dean lowered the gun and unhooked the chain on the door. "Good job, son." He reached over to pat his older child on the head as he passed by. "Hey Sammy." He greeted the toddler sitting on the floor coloring, who barely looked up. "Dean, put the chain back on the door, would ya?"
John sat on the side of the bed and dialed Caleb's number.
Caleb had run across a hunter named Bill Harvelle who had been working a case involving several suspicious fires in the homes of six month old babies. According to Harvelle, he had discovered three more incidents in 1983 in different parts of the country with similar circumstances, not counting the ones John was already aware of. He had also uncovered two other occurrences in 1960 under similar circumstances. Both of the six month old babies in the 1960 fires had vanished without a trace in their early twenties.
Harvelle lived in Nebraska, only a day's drive away, almost straight up I-35. He asked Caleb to call Harvelle back and arrange a meeting for the following evening.
"Just go on up there." Caleb laughed. "Harvelle's wife runs a bar. It's kind of a gathering place for hunters. I'm surprised you haven't heard of it already."
"Appreciate it," John answered.
"I'll keep digging, see what else turns up." Caleb offered. "But Harvelle's probably your best shot."
John hung up the phone and turned to his sons. "Let's pack it up, boys. We're leaving."
They pulled into Smithfield, Nebraska long past the boys' bedtime. John was relieved that he at least remembered to stop and pick them up some chicken nuggets and fries before they fell asleep in the backseat.
He found Harvelle's Roadhouse easily enough, but quickly realized there didn't appear to be a motel in town. Glancing over the backseat at his sons, John decided he was going to have to ask. He threw a jacket over the sleeping tangle of limbs, locked the doors, and prayed the boys would stay asleep long enough for him to duck inside and ask a few questions.
The interior looked much like any other bars, a dozen or so patrons scattered around, most nursing beers, and a poker game underway in the back corner. A woman, younger than he expected, manned the bar.
"Beer?" she offered as John approached the bar.
He threw a glance over his shoulder toward the parking lot. "Maybe later." He turned to face her. "Is there a motel around?"
"Are you Winchester?" she raised an eyebrow.
"Yeah." He nodded.
"Ellen Harvelle." She held out a hand. "Caleb told us to expect you. We've got a couple rooms upstairs." She jerked a thumb toward the back of the bar. "You can stay in one of them for the night."
John shook his head. "I appreciate it, but I've got two little boys … "
"Bill and I have a year old baby ourselves." She smiled. "Trust me, no one is getting back there near the kids. You can bring them in through the back door."
He hesitated, looking back toward the door again.
"Nearest motel is nearly twenty miles." She told him. "Why don't you get the boys and all of you turn in for the night. You look pretty worn out yourself. Bill's watching Joanna Beth tonight, so he's probably already fallen asleep in front of the tv in our room. The two of you can talk about the case in the morning."
John thanked the woman and moved the car around back as she instructed. He carefully carried both boys in, and a hunter who introduced herself as Annie led him up the back stairs and unlocked a door for him. She stepped inside despite John's threatening growl, pulled the covers back on the queen sized bed with a smile, and wished him goodnight, patting his shoulder and laying the key on the dresser on her way out.
He grumbled a thank you as he laid the boys in the bed, but she was already gone.
The room was small, smaller than most of the dives they had stayed in over the past few years, but it was clean.
And small was easier to defend.
John double checked the locks on the door, poured a line of salt at the door, and slid into bed beside the boys.
Dean raised his head just off the pillow, looking around with bleary eyes.
"Shhhh," John whispered. "It's ok. We're safe. Go back to sleep."
The boy pulled his baby brother tighter against his chest and closed his eyes.
John watched them sleep for a few minutes until exhaustion overtook him, silencing the voice in his head that wondered whether Dean's actions were intended to make Sam feel safe, or Dean.
John was on the hood of his car with a nearly empty bottle of off brand bourbon in his hand when Jim got home.
He didn't remember most of the drive.
He had no idea how long he'd been sitting on the hood, except that it was now cold, after making the seven hour trip.
He barely looked up as the pastor's station wagon pulled up beside him.
"John?" the older man was out of the driver's seat and around the front end so quickly he didn't even get the door shut. "What's wrong? Where are the boys?"
John jutted a thumb over his shoulder at the car. Jim took two steps and paused a moment, apparently to confirm in his mind that the human pretzel on the back seat was both boys, and that they were still alive, before turning back to their father.
"John?" Jim grabbed his friend's shoulder and shook him slightly. "John! What's wrong? What happened?"
John finally raised his head, so broken that he didn't even hurt any more.
"He's gonna die." John whispered.
"Who?" Jim's fingers tightened. "Who's gonna die, John?"
"Sammy."
"Come on." Jim answered. Hands tugged at John, pulled him upright, pulled the bottle out of his nearly frozen fingers. "Let's get you and the boys inside and tell me what's going on."
John mechanically followed the minister's instructions, carrying the boys inside and settling them onto a pile of blankets Jim put on the floor in the corner. He sat at the table, staring unseeingly at the red formica until a cup of black coffee was shoved into his line of vision.
"Why is Sam going to die, John?" Jim prodded gently.
The younger hunter wrapped his hands around the cup, but did not raise it to his mouth. "The demon will kill him." He took a deep breath, which came back out shaky, almost a sob. "The demon that killed his mother is going to kill Sam." John continued, staring down into the black stillness of the coffee. "I've been working with Bill Harvelle for over a year now. Sam … he's one of at least the third round. It happened before in 1960, and in 1936. There were fires … babies who were six months old. They're all dead. All of them in their late teens or early twenties. Some of the bodies were found, and some weren't. Five of the bodies were found together in an abandoned factory in 1963, but they had all been missing for almost four years at the time. I don't know why the demon wants them dead. I don't know why he's doing any of it. But he's gonna kill Sammy."
He choked on a sob, his hands clenching so that coffee sloshed over the edge of the cup.
"He's just a baby, Jim." John shook his head. "He's the sweetest little boy, he never hurt anyone and he worships Dean and he tries so hard to be good for me and that monster is going to kill him … "
"John!" The pastor snapped to get the other man's attention. When John looked up, Jim continued in a softer, assuring tone. "We're gonna do everything we can to stop the demon. You, me, Harvelle, Bobby, Caleb, Travis, every hunter I know. There's not much honor among hunters for the most part, but we do all hold children sacred. We're not gonna let this demon take Sam or any of those other children without a fight. You got me?"
John nodded, his lips clamped together.
"But listen to me," Jim pleaded softly. "If the worst comes about, you have to hold on to whatever time you do have with Sam. Love him for every day you do have with him, do you understand? Don't close yourself off from him because you're afraid of losing him to the demon. It's not his fault, and he's already lost his mother. Don't let the demon take his father from him too. Mary gave her life trying to save that child. Love him enough for both of parents."
John nodded stiffly, still too choked up to speak.
Jim walked around to pat the younger man's shoulder. "You're tired and you're overwrought. Go get some rest, and in the morning, we'll work on it. We'll figure out how to save Sam."
John nodded again, and made his way into the spare bedroom. He carefully extracted Sam from Dean's arms and cradled his younger son against his chest, sitting on the side of the bed.
"Oh, Sammy," he whispered, pressing his lips to the top of his son's head.
Dean woke suddenly, his head whipping from side to side and his hands patting the blankets, looking for his brother.
"I've got him." John said softly.
Dean scrambled to his feet and over to stand beside his father and brother. He surreptitiously looked Sam over, as if to assure himself that the child wasn't injured or in distress. He then reached out, wrapping his arms around the younger boy's waist.
"I got him." Dean replied around a yawn, gently tugging.
"No, I'm just going to hold him for a few minutes." John answered. "Go back to sleep, son."
Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his father. "What's the code word?"
"Go go gadget," John smiled faintly.
Dean backed away slowly. He laid back down on the pallet of blankets, never once taking his eyes off Sam.
After several minutes of Dean's intense stare, John sighed. "Come here."
He laid down on the bed, still holding Sam, and patted the space next to him in invitation for Dean.
Dean laid down and pressed himself so close to Sam that the younger child was nearly smothered between his father and brother.
"It's ok, Dean." John huffed impatiently.
"Sammy will be scared if he wakes up and I'm not here." The boy insisted.
John froze, realizing that if he didn't find a way to save Sam, he would lose both of his sons.
For years, until Sam became a teenager and argued with his father for even breathing, half the nights he was home John stood at the foot of the bed, sometimes for hours, and watched his boys sleep.
The night Sam left to go to Stanford, thanked a God he only half believed in that Dean would not be there when the demon came for Sam.