prologue
It had been too easy, he could see that now. Seven young men and boys had been killed in less than a month, the locations marking a path toward the east coast. All the boys had been fist born sons of devout Christian families. The victims were found strangled, hearts removed from their bodies . Following the newspaper and television reports it had been clear to John that this was supernatural. He had packed up his sons and headed out of their mangy hotel in Tennessee and headed to the town the last body was recovered. The latest victim had been the nine year old son of a preacher. When they arrived in the town he could feel the panic in the population. Parks stood empty, no children rode their bikes in the street. Strangers who would have been welcomed weeks before were viewed with suspicion. Checking into a dark strip motel, he gave his boys the usual speech.
"Lock the doors, keep the shades down, don't answer the door, and Dean, keep an eye on Sammy. He is your responsibility. Something gets in, shoot first ask questions later." "If you don't hear from me in 48 hours, call Pastor Jim."
Dean nodded once and herded his younger brother to the television passing him the remote control. John had felt his youngest son's eyes on him but he never looked up.
Research had led John to believe that a Boggart, a fear demon could be responsible. Boggarts were unique in that they changed shape into the thing most feared by their intended victims. They did not possess humans as swarm demons did, and they could be killed with a silver blade much like many of the monsters they hunted. He packed his bag from the arsenal in his trunk and headed to the church at the center of town. The demon would not leave the area until the boy was buried. They fed on the fear of the victim, then the grief of the family. The funeral was in the morning.
John tracked the demon signs to the storage shed behind the rectory. He surrounded it with a thick salt line, and stepped over it to finish the monster before he could kill again. A small voice in his head warned him this seemed way to easy.
As John walked into the small building the demon morphed into the shape of tall thin man, with glowing yellow eyes. He faced John with a mocking smile. Without a word John raised his sawed off shotgun and blew salt shot into the demons chest, causing it to fly back against the wall screeching. John advanced on the demon, pulling out a silver blade and a flask of holy water.
"Winchester!" it laughed. "You are John Winchester!"
John raised his eyes, stunned the demon knew him by name.
"This was so easy, You have no clue do you? We lured you here and you fell into our trap. My brother stalks your lovely children as we speak"
John tossed holy water at the demon before advancing with the knife.
"He is with your boys by now. How lucky we are that Dean fears your disapproval more than any monster. My brother will be wearing your form, I'm sure poor Dean let his Daddy in." The demon said bursting into laughter. "I wonder if the boy will think it is you killing him, how I would love to see his face."
John felt panic rip through his chest.
" Don't worry about little Sam, we won't harm a hair on his precious head. He is, after all, one of us." the demon said slyly. "We will hold him until it is time for him to be called to his destiny. He will be the savior of us all!"
Black putrid blood oozed out of the demon's mouth as John buried the silver blade into its neck.
O0o00o0o0o0o0o
Dean opened the motel door, and the tall figure of John Winchester pushed in.
"Where is Sam." he said sternly, scanning the room with his eyes.
"Shower." Dean said, locking the door. "Getting that kid to wash is like pulling teeth."
Dean turned toward his Dad and stepped back when he saw the look of fury etched across John's face.
"Dad, did something go wrong? Are you OK?"he said, continuing to back away.
"You know what you did." John ground out, advancing on his son while pulling a wicked blade from the sheath at his waist.
"Dad. I..." Deans voice choked off as he was pushed against the thin motel wall. He began to fight in earnest against the hand wrapping around his throat. He raised his arm to block the blade his father swung at his chest. Blood sprayed from the defensive wound on his forearm.
Sam heard something hit the wall as he dried off and bent to pull on the sweatpants he would sleep in. He heard Dean's frantic voice but could not make out the words. He was surprised that his Dad would have come back so quickly, but Dean wouldn't have let anyone else into the motel room. If Dean was upset there was little doubt his Dad had been drinking. When he was drunk this early it was always bad. He steeled himself for the long night ahead.
He pushed the door open to see his brother being choked against the wall by a leering clown. He felt his stomach drop at the horrifying sight. Nothing scared him like clowns, but at fourteen he kept that to himself.
He looked toward the duffel bag between the beds, crept forward and pulled out the glock 19. He had trained with the gun for years and it felt comforting in his hand. He quickly grabbed the clip and it slid in with an audible click. He spun and sighted Dean's tormentor in one fluid motion, unloading six shots into its back.
Dean saw an astonished look on his father's face as he jerked, the knife raised to strike at him again. The blade slipped from his hand and the man slowly turned toward the shooter, staggering forward.
Sammy had shot their father, Dean thought, this couldn't be happening! Dean was stunned to see his brother reloading a clip into the semiautomatic. Sam raised it again and emptied it into the man's chest. Dean saw his father learching forward as Sam scooted backward over the bed to avoid a grasping arm.
"NO Sammy!" Dean yelled, heading for his Dad.
All eyes turned to the door as it was kicked in and slammed against the wall. John Winchester burst in, shotgun in his right hand, silver blade in his left. He raised the gun and fired at the figure stalking Sam. In a split second John dropped the gun and tossed the knife at the stunned figure, impaling its forehead. It dropped like a stone, sparks sizzling around the wound.
"Dad?" Dean said looking between the two men who appeared to be his father. He finally felt the pain in his arm, and looked down to see blood flowing freely, dripping of his hand and soaking his jeans. He pushed himself back retreating against the wall as the second John Winchester came for him. Dean felt the room spin as the man reached him. He didn't feel his father catch him as he pitched forward unconscious.
"Sam, throw me the towel and get the med kit." John said calmly. Sam had no clue how John's insides were twisting.
John dropped Dean onto the bed He ran his hands over the boy looking for injuries before pressing the towel against the deep cut on his arm.
"Put the gun down Sammy, come help me with your brother." "Hold pressure on that" he said looking down at the bloody towel.
John walked to his bag and pulled out a new bottle of Jack Daniels, he twisted off the top and had Sam pull back the towel so he could pour it over the wound. Better to do it with the boy asleep, John thought. Sam reapplied the pressure as John pulled out the needle and thread preparing to close the gaping wound. He threw the threaded needle into a plastic cup and poured some of the whiskey over it.
" You did that Sammy?" John said inclining his head toward the body on the floor.
Sammy looked at his dad and nodded,
"You did good boy." John said, pulling back the towel to begin stitching.
o0o0o0o0o0o
John Winchester exhaled heavily as the Impala slid up Coastal Route 1. The hunt should never have gone the way it did. His boy had been injured.
Looking to his left he saw his sleeping fourteen year old son leaning against the passenger's door, head resting on his fathers wadded up coat. The boy had just had his first kill. Lifting his eyes to the rear view mirror he ran his eyes over his eighteen year old boy sprawled out across the back seat, left arm flung over his eyes to keep out the passing head lights. The boy's right arm was cradled against his belly, the white bandages wrapped around it a beacon in the dark interior.
He rubbed his hand across his eyes, remembering what the demon had said about Sam.
They were headed north. For years he had heard whispers of a reclusive psychic who lived secluded in Maine. Rumor said that she practiced no witchcraft, the gift was passed down her line for centuries. She had been known to help hunters. He needed to find the woman and get the truth.
o0o0o0o0o
Esme saw it in a waking dream. The end was coming. The cursed ones were coming and she would look upon their faces. Prophesy was written generations ago of this day and the days that would follow.
The old woman unwrapped an aging book bound in pale leather, cautiously turning the pages until she found the passage.
AND A MAN SHALL COME OF HIS OWN WILL WITH QUESTIONS , LEADING THE CURSED ONES. THEIR GREEN GAZE SHALL CAPTIVATE OUR YOUTH, TURNING THEM FROM THE PATH . THE DEVILS WILL FEEL OUR PRESENCE, THE ANCIENT WILL CONVERGE TO TEST OUR FAITH. FYLGJA, GUARD WELL OUR DAUGHTERS, FOR IF THE CURSED COMPELL THE CHOSEN, THE SECOND BURN WILL DEVOUR THE EARTH.
Esme sent for her grand daughter. It was time to pass on the White Book, a chronicle of their family, to the one who would finish it. She considered taking the boy child with her, he was not part of the prophesies. It would upset the girl, there was no harm in leaving him. She frowned as she added her final entry.
She had hoped, years ago, this would all fall to her. When she had no daughters she was sure. It wasn't meant to be.
The old woman knew with a certainty that she could not save her family by eliminating the coming threats. These boys were the cornerstone of the first burn. They were instruments of the celestials. Only after the smoke cleared from the abject destruction they would to cause, could her young ones take their place and save what was left.
She sensed the fylgja hovering in the shadows. Good.
A lovely young girl stood in the darkened hall, sensing the older woman's fear. She flexed her hands, testing the strength of her chosen form. She had adapted this form for years, carefully mimicking the aging process of her human charge. Her purpose now was to protect the chosen one, as it had been to protect her mother, and as it will be to protect her daughters. She had been bestowed on this family a hundred generations ago, always with the knowledge that this line would put an end to the last of the ancients. They would survive the end of days, the first burn of the earth. The One would step forward to represent the humans left to rebuild. The second burn would come, and gloriously, order would be restored.
The cursed could not be allowed to sully their purpose. She could not kill them, they were destined to destroy themselves. It was written. They would come, ask their questions and go. She would see to it.