TWO
Head Hunted
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Sam walked up to the graveside, finding everyone had departed save the lone woman currently staring down into the open hole. He stopped nearby, looking down at the coffin with the handfuls of dirt on top.
He waited, and eventually the woman looked over at him.
"Are you a friend of hers?" she asked slowly.
Sam straightened and turned as if surprised she were speaking. He offered a sad smile. "Not really. I just think it's a waste," he said truthfully.
The woman nodded, her brown hair bouncing around her shoulders. Her dark grey trouser suit was severe, well-cut, expensive, and yet her black boots were well-used and scuffed. She reached up and pulled the black Ray-Bans from her eyes, looking at Sam's feet, and he got the impression she was nearing forty years old.
"It was a waste. It was a… It was cruel." Her voice was strangely warm for someone managing to describe such misery in two sentences.
Sam felt his eyebrows twitch in sympathy. "You knew her?"
"I did," she allowed. "Hannah and I were… good friends. Very good friends."
She turned and looked back down at the grave, pondering something. Sam watched her fold the glasses and pull one side of her suit jacket open slightly, pushing them into some kind of inside pocket. He noticed a small silver ring on the baby finger of her left hand, possibly inlaid with some kind of stone, but it flashed in and out of sight too quickly for any kind of analysis.
They heard a slight crackle of radio and Sam squeezed his eyes shut, kicking himself for ignoring all the signs. He opened them to see her feeling in her left pocket for a radio.
"Yeah, this is Frost. What it is?"
There was hurried jabbering from the other end of the radio and she flicked her eyes up to find Sam pretending he wasn't listening. She cleared her throat and turned away from him, walking across the grass quickly.
"Ok. I'm on my way. Make sure no-one disturbs the scene."
Sam turned but she was already heading down the embankment toward an older model champagne coloured BMW 750i. She sniffed casually as she unlocked it and opened the door, pausing to look back over her shoulder at him. He smiled slightly and she looked undecided. Then she jumped in and closed the door. The car started up and pulled away smartly.
Sam looked around slowly, making sure no-one else was watching him, and pulled out his phone. He pressed the speed-dial and waited as the line connected. It rang for a long time before Dean answered.
"What?"
"Your suspect? She's a police officer," Sam said smugly.
"That's great. I'm nearly done here, meet you at the car," Dean replied shortly. The line was cut and Sam looked at the phone, surprised, before pushing it back in his pocket.
Sam sighed. "Yeah, cos hanging round cemeteries is what I live for."
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"Yeah, cos hanging round cemeteries is what I live for," John growled down the phone. He lifted his chin, about to bawl down the mouthpiece, but caught sight of a mousy head just shy of the top of the sofa behind him. He hesitated. "Look, Bobby - I can't talk right now. Yeah, you know who it is. Right. I'll call later when they're sleeping."
John dropped the receiver to the phone on the table, turning leisurely. "Dean, come out from there," he said with a hint of weariness.
Dean's head slowly lifted from behind the sofa and his hands hooked over the back, aiding his ascent. He blinked large eyes at his father.
"Was that uncle Bobby?" he asked, strangely excited. John paused, a little surprised.
"Ye-ah," he allowed, walking around the sofa and sitting. Dean turned and jumped, unfolding his legs to bounce down next to the father. He leaned on him, banging a little fist into his leg soundly.
"Is he comin' here or are we goin' there?" Dean asked eagerly.
John caught at his wrist and held it still before he left a bruise. "Neither. He was asking if I wanted to do some work for him, and I said no."
"What kinda work?" Dean asked quickly.
"The kind of work that would pay for a bigger room," he smiled.
"I don't want a bigger room," Dean pouted.
"Why's that?"
"Cos I can't see you and Sammy at the same time in a bigger room, and I don't like that idea," he said firmly.
John smiled, raising his hand and ruffling at his son's hair. There was a thumping on the door and both of them jumped slightly. John grabbed Dean's shoulder firmly to keep him still.
"Yeah?" he called at the door.
"Mr Aframian? It's me, from the front desk," came a girl's voice. John nudged at Dean as he got to his feet quickly. He shuffled him from the sofa to the floorboards and turned him around by his shoulders to look him in the eye.
"Dean, get your brother, we have to leave," he ordered.
"But Dad--"
"Do it. Now." He turned him round and gave him a gentle push toward the other door.
"Mr Aframian?" came the girl's voice again. "I just got a call!"
John waited till Dean was out of the room. He hurried to the door and opened it to find the woman from the desk looking at him.
"Oh I'm sorry, Mr Aframian, looks like that new husband's found you," she said quickly. "I just got a phone call from the police - they asked about you, used some fake name like 'Winchester', I think, but it was you, John, and your boys. If you want to stay out of their way, you'd better leave now."
John nodded. "I got it. Thanks, Joanie. You don't know how much you've helped me."
"Oh, John. I'm so sorry that horrid man is after your kids. Go now, hurry, before they get here." She lunged forward and grabbed his arms, kissing at his cheek firmly. "Good luck. I'll tell them you must have bolted even though you paid for the next two nights." She pulled a thin wad of bills from her pocket, thrusting it at him. "A refund."
"Joanie, you're too good to us," he managed. So good I wish I didn't have to lie about why the police are after me. "You're an angel."
She just smiled, shaking her head and stepping back. "Oh, angels aren't real, John. We just have to get along as best we can by ourselves," she added sadly. Then she turned and disappeared from the doorway.
John stood for a moment, the tacit sadness of her remark cutting through his evening. Then he heard scuffling and movement behind him. He closed the door quickly, finding Sam all bundled up in a huge Parka that made him look like the Michelin man, except for the tiny lengths of jeans sticking out the bottom, ending in scuffed trainers.
"Dean," he sighed, trying to keep a straight face.
"It's cold outside and last time the heater in the car didn't work," said his oldest in defence, appearing from behind the round ball of super-heated Sam. He himself had two jumpers on with his heavy denim jacket on top, and John let his head tilt before he turned it to appraise the clothing arrangements on the baby of the family.
"That's your coat he's got on."
"He's four, he can't get cold," Dean said dismissively. He took Sam's gloved hand and hefted a duffle bag over his shoulder. He staggered a little under the weight but made himself straighten. "Well we're ready. Are you?"
John made himself remember why they were fleeing in the first place and went into the back room. He emerged not two minutes later with his duffle and every worldly possession stuffed into it. He leaned down and took Dean's hand.
"Come on. We need to get in the car and drive for a while."
"Why?" Sam asked suddenly.
"Sammy, shush. Dad says we gotta go, so we gotta go. He'll tell us later," Dean told him.
John paused, the sliver of time so clear. He knew it was all wrong, knew his sons shouldn't have to hop towns like this, knew he shouldn't be letting his older son act for him in his forced absence, knew it was all stretching out fit to ruin what future they could have between the three of them. The moment was so still and so clear: the opportunity to put a stop on the crazy world and simply take his boys to a place where chasing monsters in the night didn't matter any more.
He considered it, actually considered giving up the need to trace the murderer of his wife, the mother his youngest son would never know, the mother his eldest son still refused to talk about with his own father.
Anger flared anew and he simply led his boys out of the motel quickly and into the car.
Sam was deposited in the middle of the bench seat and Dean pulled the passenger door closed quickly. John slid into the driver's seat and gunned the engine. He slid her into Reverse and eased her quietly out of the parking lot, snatching a quick look up at the reception window as he reached the exit. He was unsurprised to see Joanie wave a cheerful hand, as if she knew something he didn't.
He buried the unease. After all, most of the time it felt like everyone knew something he didn't. About a great many things.
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He slowed the Impala to a stop in the darkness, listening to the engine tick over warmly and wondering which way to take at the intersection. He looked over at the passenger half, seeing his two boys fast asleep in a tangled heap of arms and legs. Dean had unzipped and removed the Parka to spare Sam a roasting, and now both of them were snuggled under it happily. John smiled for a moment, before he cursed the fact that they were sleeping in the front seat of a car and not in proper beds.
He looked around in the darkness outside the car, finding nothing of help, not even a signpost. He leaned over to the glovebox, opening it up and rifling through to try and find some kind of map. He knew he had one of Nevada in there somewhere, he just wasn't sure where.
His fingers connected with something paper and he pulled it free. It appeared to be the giant fold-over map of Pahrump that Dean had procured suspiciously free of charge from the motel shop. John stalled his small smile of pride and began to open it out. He traced the motel and tried to work out the route he had just taken for the last forty minutes.
He paused as his fingers brushed the place name of his possible intersection. He sniffed and brought the map up closer to his face to try and read names.
There was a slam against the bodywork. John dropped the map into his lap, forgotten. Something squealed in horrific anger at the windscreen. John's eyes widened in recognition. He ignored the sounds of fear from the passenger side and already had the old girl in gear. He slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
The Impala leapt forward slightly. Then she stopped. He heard the engine haring away eagerly, could hear the revs going nuts and saw the rpm count climb insanely high. The car was not moving.
He looked in the rear view mirror and saw why.
Something human-shaped and grey had hands under the boot. He could only assume they were hauling the rear wheels off the ground with supernatural strength.
He let his foot off and instead went for the machete down the left side of his seat. He rammed the car into Park.
"Daddy!" Sam squealed in fear.
"Jesus Christ!" John whispered hoarsely, staring in horror. Sam and Dean were gripping tightly to each other, looking out of the passenger window at another grey semi-human. It wrenched at the door handle. It started to open.
John leaned over, panicked. But Dean's hand shot out and grabbed at the inside of the handle desperately. It slowed it down enough to give John time to grab it. He wrenched it closed again and slammed the knob down to lock the door. He turned to his own door in time to hear glass smashing.
Hands grabbed at him and he was yanked from his seat.
Dean shouted something as Sam screamed. It was ear-piercingly loud. Dean dumped Sam on the passenger seat and scrambled over the other side. He pushed the heavy door open, about to jump out of the car after his father.
He ignored Sam's screams and pleas. He threw his young legs over the side of the vinyl to the dirt road. He looked up to see John struggling with some large, grey, emaciated man.
"Dean! Get in! Lock it!" John shouted at him. "Protect Sam!"
Dean just stared, rooted to the spot in fear. Sam screamed ever more loudly behind him. Dean's eyes refused to close, refused to blink, refused to look away. His father turned quickly, raking the machete across the man's throat.
The deluge of strangely dark blood kick-started Dean's legs. He turned and scrambled back up the seat. He slammed the door and pounded the knob down into it with both small fists. He felt hot salty tears on his cheeks as he groped blindly for Sam behind him. His baby brother's tiny hands fastened onto his jacket. Dean turned quickly, grabbing him and hauling him to him. He yanked him to sit facing him. He simply enveloped him, making sure his little head was inside his jacket.
He closed his eyes. They held tight to each other for an eternity.
There came a huge smashing sound. Sam screamed, muffled by Dean's two sweaters. Then Dean felt hands gripping his shoulder, felt something pulling at Sam. He yelled and kicked out, his eyes screwed shut in terror.
Sam screamed. Dean shouted and kicked. He was lifted up. His wail of fear turned into a bellow of anger as he felt himself losing grip on Sam.
"No! Gimme!" he snarled, opening his eyes. He was no longer in the car. Two large grey men were peering down at him, grinning with missing teeth and holes in their faces. "Gimme Sam!" he bawled. He kicked and flailed with all his strength. "Sam! Sammy! SAAAUUUM!"
One of the grey men suddenly disappeared. The other snatched at Dean and lifted him over his head. Dean realised he was far off the ground and squeaked in fear. He grabbed at the hands holding him up.
He felt his stomach drop out and then something walloped into him harder than a freight train. He lay, dazed, barely able to keep his eyes open, knowing his vision was blurring and the grey men seemed to be everywhere.
He heard Sam screaming for him. He forced himself to struggle. He felt sick, scared, surreal, and yet his hands searched for the grass either side of him. He found it and pushed himself up, something hot and sticky in his eye.
"Dean! No! Dean!"
He knew he should answer his father, but it was all too much effort. He wasn't sure, but he thought he felt the ground in his head. And then it all went black.
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