Two Directions

by kellyofsmeg

Summary: March 1985. A hunter by the name of Logan needs backup on a hunt, and Bill Harvelle knows just the man for the job. John Winchester, taking on a case that hits close to home for the young father and seen through the eyes of another hunter. John &OC hunt.

...

I'll be the first to admit that us hunters are pretty difficult so far as people go. We're anti-social, cantankerous, paranoid nomads—full of blood lust, piss and vinegar, and probably a few too many drinks. We've seen things that would make most people voluntarily lock themselves in the loony bin for the rest of their naturals, but not us—we keep diving headfirst into every death-defying monster-hunt we can find. We go looking for ghosts and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. That's how we get our kicks and settle a score. Along the way we might even be able to save a few lives, too, even if we're stupid enough to risk our own.

No, we're not crazy. Most of us. At least not entirely. Yet. Most of us don't live long enough to go completely cuckoo's nest. We could all probably do with some anger management sessions, but we know better. We need that fuel to keep the fire going. Every hunter knows that.

And every hunter worth his rock salt also knows when to admit their slingshot's not big enough to take on Goliath this time and need some backup. It takes a lot to swallow the pride and most hunters don't leave enough room after their victories for a helping of humble pie. They'd literally rather face the mouth of the beast than admit they've bit off more than they can chew. As for me, well, I may be stupid, but I ain't suicidal.

So I drag my ass over to a payphone, light up a cigarette and place a call to Elgin, Nebraska. The Roadhouse. Sort of the hub for hunters. There's always a handful of 'em in between gigs that are just itching for the next thing to kill. In the meantime they sit around and overwork their livers, getting their fixes from re-telling past glories to anyone who'll listen.

The phone picks up after three rings. "Harvelle's Roadhouse. What can I do for you?"

"Hi, Bill. It's Logan," I say into the mouthpiece. I listen in the background. The music's loud and there's plenty of voices in the background. Should be no problem finding someone who's up for the job. "I'm in Grand Junction. Could use some backup."

"Good to hear from you, Logan," Bill says. He's shouting over the noise in his bar. "What're you after?"

"Lamia. In fact, I'm pretty damn sure there's three of them. In the last two months, six kids have gone missing in Aspen and Steamboat Springs, stolen right outta their beds. All of them over the last two new moons. Next one's tomorrow tonight, and I've traced the Lamias here. I've managed to locate the nest, too."

"Lamia, huh?" says Bill, sounding surprised. I hear the glug-glug-glug sound of him pouring a drink. "You sure?"

"Positive," I say. "Eliminated all other possibilities. So that's what it's gotta be."

"I've never heard of one of those things on this side of the Atlantic. I hear they don't go down easy, either," Bill says.

"Only reason I'm callin' for a sidekick. Got anyone you think will be up to the job?" I ask. "Ideally someone who won't screw up and get me killed?"

Bill pauses a moment while he thinks. "I've got a friend of mine coming through tonight. Just bridled a kelpie in Louisiana. Good chance he'll be up for the job," I hear Bill make an exchange with a customer and he's back on the line. "Now he's only been in the game for a year and a half or so—"

"No way. I don't need no greenhorn, Bill," I grumble. "I ain't got time for any hunter still's got his training wheels on."

"You don't know this guy. He hit the ground running. What he lacks in experience, he makes up for with brute force and a can-do attitude. He figures it out as he goes, never let anything get away with a pulse far as I know. Hard to tell the difference between him and someone who's been hunting for thirty years, 'cept that he moves a hell of a lot faster. He's dedicated to the job. Focused, driven, intense—some have said obsessed," Bill chuckled. I can tell he agrees. "Plus, he's a good man. Decent. Got what you might call moral courage. No one else I'd rather have in my corner with my back against the wall."

I feel my skepticism take turns peaking and plummeting. I know that when something, or in this case, someone, sounds too good to be true, it usually is. I also trust Bill, but I ain't ever known anyone who picked up the trade as fast as he claims this guy has.

Maybe Bill can tell I'm still on the fence, because he says, "Plus, you two have a lot in common. He used to turn wrenches, too. Just wait till you see his car. She's a beauty. '67 Chevy Impala. And did I mention he served in Nam? Marine, same as you."

"Not to mention he's pretty easy on the eyes," I can hear the teasing sound in Ellen's voice as she steals the phone from her husband. "He's one of those tall, dark and handsome types."

"Well, ain't that the cherry on top," I say, letting out a lungful of smoke in a long stream, watching it float up above my head.

"Sorry, Logan," I hear Ellen say, can hear her swatting Bill's hand away from the phone. "I wasn't sure whether Bill was trying to set you up with a hunting partner or a blind date."

"Is this guy as good as Bill says, El?" I ask, flicking the ash off the end of my smoke. "Answer me honest, now."

"Only second to you of course, sweetheart," Ellen says. I hear Bill take the phone from his wife and tell her if she's gonna flirt, do it with the paying customers.

"So?" Bill demands, back on the line. "You sold yet, or do you want me to dispatch one of the half-assed neutralized yahoos I've got here?" a muffled, "No offense, Jed." Then, "Like I was saying before, this guy's good. Like he's been hunting his whole life."

"He know anything about Lamia?" I ask. Mission intel is critical.

"Wouldn't be surprised. He's always researching something or other. Anyone would think he's a scholar. Always got his nose in some book of lore or other, taking notes in his hunting journal," Bill says. "If not, he'll know everything before he gets there, and you can count on that."

"Just one more thing I wanna know," I say, sucking in on my lip. "What's this bastard's name?"

I can hear a smile in Bill's voice when he says, "John Winchester."

"Huh," I say. Like the gunmaker. Gotta be a good omen. I think. "You sure he'll take the case? I can't do with no maybe. I need someone you know'll commit."

"John's never backed down from a case that I've heard of," says Bill. "Plus, I think he'll have a vested interest in this one."

I don't ask why that is. Don't much care, so long as he can help get the job done. "Tell him to meet me in Grand Rapids, the parking lot at the Sleep EZ motel off Main Street at 1200 hours tomorrow."

"Don't be surprised if he's there at the crack of dawn," Bill laughs.

I'm skeptical again. "It's a ten hour drive."

"You don't know John like I do," says Bill. "Just try to keep up with him, okay, Logan? Don't let him run you ragged."

"Yeah, yeah," I mutter and roll my eyes. Ain't no amateur hunter gonna give me the run around, even if he is a fellow wrench-monkey Jarhead. "This guy'd better be as good as you say he is, or I'm coming for you, Harvelle—alive or dead."

"I won't lay out the salt lines just yet," says Bill. I can tell he's smirking. "You'll thank me later."

"We'll see. Say, Bill? You and Ellen had that baby yet?"

"Nope. El's not due till early April," Bill says. "We can't wait."

I can hear real happiness in my friend's voice-something I don't hear often in a hunter, so I hope I sound sincere when I say, "Congratulations, Bill. That's great. I'll see you soon. I hope."

Bill laughs. "Don't worry-you're in good hands. I'll see you soon, my friend."

"You'd better," I say and hang up the phone. I still feel like I might've just placed my money on a Thoroughbred that's actually a mule painted black with charcoal. No way can anyone be in the game for a year and already have people talkin' like they're the genuine article. Needless to say, I'm looking forward to meeting John Winchester and find out for myself just how good he is. Or isn't.

Anyway, I got all sorts to do before the big showdown tomorrow night. I put on my suit and badge and run a few more checkups with the police. They know the same as before: diddly squat. Back to the motel. I clean my weapons, practice throwing knives into my target rest, eat a can of baked beans for dinner and pass out in front of the TV with a six pack and The A-Team.

...

A pounding on the door of my room loud enough to wake the dead jolts me out of bed. I immediately grab my Bowie knife, still at least half-asleep, and stagger over to the door. I yank back the curtains, see a man standing there. Daylight's barely starting to peak out. Can't be later than 0700. Knife still held tight in my fist, I open the door, but keep the deadbolt in place. I stare at the stranger, suspicious, and wait for him to have the first word.

"You Logan?" the man asks, squinting at me through the crack in the door. No, not squinting, I decide. Glaring.

"Maybe. Depends on who you are," I say back.

"Name's Winchester. Bill Harvelle told me you're working a case and need some backup."

I blink hard. "Yeah, I do. Wasn't expecting you quite yet," I say. Bill was right about the son of a bitch showing up at sunrise. I wonder what else he's right about. "I don't recall tellin' Bill my room number. And I know the office ain't open yet."

"Plan was to knock on every door till I found yours," Winchester says. "But then I saw the Chevy pickup parked out front, I took a guess and got lucky."

"Well, I'm sure the other tenants are very grateful," I slide back the deadbolt. "Come on in, then." Winchester stays rooted outside. "What? You waitin' for a special invitation or something?"

"You've never met me before," says Winchester, getting a silver flask out of his jacket pocket. There's rosary beads wrapped around the neck. Holy water. "How do you know I am who I say I am?"

"Mostly cos you knew I had Bill send for you," I say. And I thought I was paranoid. I know there's things like shapeshifters and demons that can go bodysnatching, but it seems like this is the guy's version of a handshake. Winchester takes a long swig of the holy water. Next I watch as he rolls up his sleeve, takes a silver knife and cuts his forearm, not even flinching.

"Now you," says Winchester, rolling his sleeve back down. I notice then that he's a big guy—fills up the doorway. Definitely stands proud like a Marine. He's tall, and bulky in a way that says he's kept up his boot camp training exercises. Good. I don't need no spaghetti-armed maggot.

I decide to consent to proving I'm human. Seems easier. I take a swig from my own jug of holy water, gargle with it a bit. Then I pull my silver knife from my belt and cut my arm. Winchester nods. He doesn't seem any more accommodating, but at least he's not looking at me like I could potentially be the antichrist anymore.

Winchester finally steps into the room. I close and bolt the door behind him and redo the salt line disturbed by the door opening and closing. "You ever hunt a Lamia before, Green?"

"I've read lore," Winchester says. I can tell by his tone he doesn't much like being called a rookie. "I know they're not usually found outside of Greece."

"Well, we've got three of them here by my estimation," I say, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. "You know how to kill 'em?"

In a flash, Winchester pulls a different silver knife from his belt. "Blessed by a priest. I've got rock salt and rosemary in my car, too."

"You managed to find a priest to bless that knife on your little road trip?"

Winchester just smirks in response.

I don't care to pry. He could've got it from a claw machine for all I care, so long as it's the real thing. I've already got my blessed knife, too, and I'm glad we don't have to worry about sharing weapons. "Luckily for us, these Lamia don't seem to be the sort who're into turning into beautiful women and luring men into forests to go all vamp on us."

"No. They're just into kidnapping and eating kids, right?" says Winchester with a poker face.

I go for the case folders. "Six so far in this state. I've noticed patterns in other states as well," Winchester grabs for the case, flips through the reports. "Looks like the Lamia change their feeding grounds every few months. Probably 'cos they're afraid of hunters catching on. They're getting more reckless; this is the most kids that've ever been nabbed in one state. But I made the connection. All the kids went missing when it was a new moon. Probably cos these things like to operate in total darkness. Picked up on the case when I was passing through Aspen a couple months back and heard an amber alert on the radio for these three missing kids. Did some poking around, and decided it had to be Lamia."

Winchester studies the face of each missing kid. "And you think there's three of them because the kids have all gone missing in threes?"

"Bingo. Lore says one per customer. So unless they've changed things up after leaving Greece..."

"You don't think they're the three sisters, do you?" Winchester looks up. "Meroe, Panthia and Pamphylia?"

I gotta admit—I'm impressed now. Winchester really has done his research. "Yeah. That's exactly what I'm thinkin'. But look at this," I go for another folder. "These are preschool and elementary school teachers from across the country."

"They're all the same people," Winchester says after a couple of seconds of scanning their faces.

"Yup. That already makes you smarter than the police. Same women, just with different names and hair colors. Maybe some Botox and plastic surgery," I say. "They can change components of their features. Their current aliases are as the Hayes sisters—Alison, Sheri and Genine. Looks like they take jobs where they can get close to the kids and decide which to single out. They seem to work a lot in families. Saves the hassle of having to break into three separate houses."

"Any other patterns to the kids they pick?"

"Families with single mothers ideally, or families with fathers that work nights. Makes it easier to nab the kids if they only have to deal with mom, I guess," I shrug. "Never houses with dogs or security systems, either. For obvious reasons."

"Bill said you have an idea where the nest is," Winchester says. I can see this real intense look in his eyes that says he wants these things dead just as much as I do. Again—good. Best to hunt with someone who's got a fire in their belly.

"Yeah," I drag out my map of Colorado, spread it out across the bed, jabbing at places on the map. "Aspen and Steamboat Springs are the cities that've been hit so far. I know these things like caves, so let's just say I've been going on a lot of hikes lately. Other day I found human remains in one of the outlying caves at Manitou Springs. Bones weren't full-grown. Six skulls total, evidence left behind of their ritual ceremonies—"

"How do you know they're gonna hit Grand Junction next?" Winchester interrupts.

"'Cos I was able to track the bitches back here," I say, turning to the next page in the folder. "One's working as substitute art teacher at the elementary school, one at a preschool, and one's a nanny to a few kids—single mom by the name of Monica Ward. Husband died of brain cancer four months ago, left her with three kids, two boys and a girl, also a heap of medical bills. She's been working two jobs since her husband died to make ends meet. I think it's most likely her kids are the ones that'll go missing—nice and convenient. The baby boy stays home with the nanny. He's too young for daycare. The toddler goes to the daycare where the other sister works. The oldest kid goes to the elementary school with the third sister. They're positioned to grab them all in one clean swoop. By the time mom gets home from work, the kids and nanny will be long gone."

"Then we'll have a stake-out," Winchester says. He's already going for the door by the time I look up from the case file.

"Hold your horses," I say, looking down at my watch. 7:10. Can't remember the last time I was up this early. "The mom doesn't even leave for work till eight. Think we can grab some breakfast first?"

"Fine," Winchester says, but he doesn't sound at all happy about it.

Tough. I ain't starting no monster hunt stakeout without my flapjacks.

TBC

...

AN: I keep saying this will be my last fic before I go on hiatus (officially, as of 2/5/14) but I keep finding a bit more time and motivation to get my WIP's done. And I've been wanting to finish this story for awhile now. I thought it'd be fun to see John from someone else's POV, and I've never actually written a case before. So this is exciting!:D

The monsters John and Logan are hunting, Lamias, are something I found when trying to research a monster Supernatural hasn't killed yet. But then I watched Weekend at Bobby's, and remembered Sam and Dean have actually fought a Lamia. But it was mostly off-screen, so I figured it wasn't a monster that was already done too death.

I may have mentioned before that I love using irony and foreshadowing. I just had to have Bill Harvelle talk John up, considering what happened with their hunt...

I also have a John Winchester fanvid under the same name as this story. You can check it out through a link in my profile page if you're interested :)

This story will probably be 4 or 5 chapters. I'm almost done with the ending, I'll post more soon. In the meantime, reviews are awesome. I like knowing someone's reading my stuff, and hopefully enjoying... ;)