"He goes on about demons. A demon killed his wife, he says, and just expects me to believe it. But what he looks like to me is someone who let grief turn him into a monster. Whatever happened to his wife, it doesn't excuse what he's done. And I can't let myself turn into him. I'm not a hunter. I'm a husband and father who wants revenge for his wife."
~John Winchester's journal, November 21, 1983
John Winchester gripped the steering wheel of his rumbling black truck, muttering curses and trying not to remember what happened with Erik all those years ago. His memory, however, had grown sharp for a reason, and he couldn't help but recall that awful, sticky hot night.
Summer 1985
John hated team-ups. He'd only started hunting a year or two ago, and already he knew it went the same in the buisness, too. But the kid was resolving this hunt to be his last, and who the hell was he to say no to him? Erik Bjorn, twenty-two at the time, met him in Wabasha a week ago, chatting up about ghosts and shit. Erik's father had been a hunter, and he definitely knew the life, that was for sure. However, he had a fiancee now, a pretty young woman, and vowed this was his last hunting bout until they got married—probably for the rest of his life, as well. Daniel had advised John to try a partner hunt out, and then he could decide if he was better alone. The Winchester man had thought this was ridiculous, of course, since he'd be working fine with both Dean and Sammy when they got old enough—besides, who was Elkins to say John need to see more people. At least John wasn't a hermit. Though, he almost wished he was when riding alongside the very talkative Erik Bjorn.
"So, this wendigo comes up out of nowhere, and my dad's like, 'Erik, I've always loved you', as if he's gonna die or something, and I'm telling him, 'Dammit, Dad, don't talk like that'. Then I'm grabbing this big-ass blowtorch I'm really fond of; I call her Sherrie, which is a funny story because—"
"Erik, please shut up," John pleaded, his eyes still on the road but visibly worn out.
Gaining composure, Erik nodded and cleared his throat, apologizing, "Right. Totally, man, sorry." Luckily the rest of the ride—which was being made to Arcadia, Ohio—was cloaked in relative silence. The little town of Arcadia seemed to have a bit of a ghost problem, and John and Erik, in this case, were (affectionately coined by film-buff Erik) the Ghostbusters. John warmed a little at the name, recalling Dean's excitement watching the movie and his declaration that his dad was officially a Ghostbuster.
One cold, rainy night driving from Tennessee to Tallahassee, Dean started singing the theme, and little Sammy shouted, "Ghos-bussers!", even though he didn't know what he was doing it for. But the grins on those boys' faces...John couldn't help but let loose and join them, if only for a while. It was one of the first, if the first, time he'd felt free since Mary was still lived. John tried not to bring Mary up around Erik, but apparently Daniel had already told the young hunter. A speech about comfort and recover, a serious threat from John, and two hours later, the pair of hunters arrived in Arcadia.
The job was surprisingly easy, with no one dead and the worst injury a scraped elbow on Erik. However, John (though he wouldn't admit it) was getting somewhat fond of the kid, and offered to drive Erik right to his house. Bjorn seemed to appreciate working with John, and thanked him along with an invitation to stay for dinner and meet his fiancee. What the hell, the Winchester decided; the boys were at Bobby's and John knew they liked being there. He agreed, parking his Impala on the street and letting Erik lead him to the front door of the lovely, albeit small, yellow-sided house. Ringing the doorbell, they waited until a scurry could be heard behind the door and it swung open, revealing a petite woman smiling sweetly.
"Erik!" she cried, kissing him suddenly, then pulling away and realizing they weren't the only ones there. John stood semi-awkwardly on the cement doorstep, waving hesitantly, and Erik's fiancee, Megan if he remembered correctly, apologized profusely. As the night went on, John got to know the couple, who were a witty, bantering power-couple, if you had to ask him.
Though he felt a little nervous doing it, he stood up at the end of dinner, holding his wine glass up in a toast, and announced, "Erik, I've known you for maybe a couple days, and already I'm damn proud of you. You've got a good house, a hell of a to-be, and...well, I'm glad you're quitting being a hunter." The young man blushed, smiling at his wistfully content fiancee. She knew about her partner's past, and yet, was still willing to look forward and start a life with him.
"So Erik told me earlier you have kids," Megan began, "I'm just curious, but...what's it like?"
Bjorn looked caught off-guard, to say the least, and John chuckled, "They're a handful, definitely. Dean's the big brother, about 6 now, and Sammy's the baby of the family, 2 years old now. Are...are you thinkin about kids?"
Megan smiled and reassured, "I just wanted your view. I won't be thinking kids for a while...at least...well, I don't think so, anyway." Erik exhaled quietly, looking relieved, and Megan laughed softly, the kind of laugh that never tried to draw attention.
After a beat of silence, Erik proclaimed, "John, why don't you stay the night? It's getting really late, and I don't want you on the road at this hour." But as the Winchester began to protest, Megan insisted, and eventually convinced John to stay the night in their guest room. John, admittedly, slept like a baby in the comfort of their cozy, warm home—at least, until 2:46 in the morning on that fateful July weekend.
The most shrill, aggravating screech John had ever heard broke through the night, and he shot up in bed, emotion choking him as he remembered the night Mary's scream had woken him up. What sounded like stumbling, heavy and clumsy, veered closer to John's room and he instinctively reached for the pistol kept under his pillow. He turned to his door, legs still tangled in the sheets as Erik suddenly ran to the doorway, abject terror in his eyes.
"Help me," he choked out, and John noticed the red on his shirt—a gallon's worth, or more.
"Whose blood?" John barked, sharpness in his voice and demeanor that snapped Erik into answering.
"N-not mine..." Erik's eyes welled up, his lips quivering before he whimpered, "It's Megan's."
SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN
Present Day
John Winchester arrived at the Evergreen Motel barely containing his anxiousness and frustration, slamming his truck door and knocking sharply on the motel door he knew his son would answer. Dean's face showed his relief clearly as he opened it and his father walked in, but his slight smile dropped to a frown when John snapped, "You been drinking again?"
The man's eyes were on the empty bottle on the floor in front of him, and Dean hurried over to kick it under the bed nearby, chuckling, "Root beer, yeah." For a moment it looked like John would say something else on the matter, but after a brief pause, he closed his eyes and sighed deeply, shoulders sagging in defeat.
"You know what, I don't care. Show me the note."
When Dean produced the crumpled paper and gave it to his father, he thought all hell would break loose. But John merely looked sad and defeated, suddenly a very small man as he sat down slowly on the bed closest to him. Breathing soft and shaky, he noticed Dean's concerned expression and told him, "I'm sorry, Dean." Hold up.
The Winchester son's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to process what his father had just said—he'd actually apologized for something. "Sorry about...what?"
Averting his gaze, the man responded quietly, "Sammy's in trouble because I didn't tell you and him about Erik. Not enough, anyway."
"Dad, it's—"
"Let me finish," John cut in sharply, raising his hand briefly. "Erik...was never ready for what happened. In fact, I could've turned out like him if anyone was there the night of..." He cleared his throat softly. "The night your mother was killed. His fiancee reminded me so much of her, I...but that doesn't matter."
After an awkward lull, Dean spoke up, leaned against the wall and facing his dad. "So what happened with Erik?"
SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN~SPN
1985
Gun gripped uncompromisingly and knuckles white, John followed the anxious Bjorn quickly into their room, where broken glass lay in precarious piles of shards, the pure white curtains blowing inwards softly in the freezing nocturnal. Face starkly pale and lips stretched into a carnal grin, Megan leered at the two men from across the room, lilac purple nightgown soaked crimson over her chest and shoulders. John's eyes grew exponentially as he realized the situation, spying the thin pile of sulfur on the windowsill and the ink-black of Megan's eyes that disappeared within a moment.
"It's a demon, Erik," he murmured softly, repositioning his hands on his gun.
The demon in Megan laughed then, if you could call it that. "No shit, Sherlock," 'Megan' hissed, her eyes sliding over to Erik, who was now a whimpering mess.
"Megan? Baby?" he choked out, and John warned him.
"Stay back, Erik. She's not Megan right now."
"Help me, Erik," the demon pleaded, very convincingly playing a distraught young fiancee. Erik's eyebrows slanted upwards, looking desperately hopeful as he took a step forward and reached his hand out towards her.
"Bjorn!" John snapped, pulling him back before addressing 'Megan'. "Who are you?" he demanded, secretly putting his every hope into it being the sunuvabitch who'd murdered Mary only a year and a half ago.
Clicking its tongue and shaking its head slowly, the demon replied, "That's not for you to know, Mr. Winchester." Taken aback, John furrowed his eyebrows and loosened the grip he had on his gun. The demon grinned mischievously, reminding them, "You know, you're gonna have to exorcise me. It's par-for-the-course. So get it over with. I'm ready."
"Not yet," John challenged, earning a sputtered gasp from Bjorn and an eyebrow raise from the demon. "What are you doing here? Why come here and possess Megan?"
Tilting her head and looking mockingly thoughtful, the demon replied in a sickeningly sweet voice, "Mmm, she's just so warm and fuzzy and such a weak bitch."
Next to John, Erik's nostrils flared and he balled up his fists tightly. "I'm not going to hurt Megan," Erik promised then, forcing himself to relax and coaxing a frown from the demon.
"Whatever," 'Megan' replied nonchalantly, pretending to examine her nails. "This baby girl's worn through, anyway. Anything else is just excess." A light of inspiration appeared in the demon's eyes that made John feel like hurling and 'Megan' said, "Ooh, could we torch her like we did Mary? That was fun."
"I'm warning you," John growled, his muscles tensing at the mention of his late wife.
The demon let loose a quiet, hissing laugh that made the two men stiffen before 'Megan' said proudly, "Looks like I already hit a nerve. Nerves like John Winchester's are hard to tap. I'm sure poor little Sam and Dean are just full of jitters, though. They'll be easy to scare—fun, actually."
"Shut up!" John snarled, an animalistic rage seething and setting his eyes alight—something that only encouraged the demon.
"Imagine going to them right now and finding their guts handing up like Christmas decorations..."
"I mean it," John chuckled dangerously, a dark humor emerging.
Sing-song, the demon began calling, "Dean and Sammy, strung up in a tree, K-I-L-L-I-N-G—"
Frozen in uncertainty, neither of the men seemed to react as the demon drew closer to them, finally stopping in front of John and smirking slyly before leaning in to whisper into his ear something only he could hear. John's eyes widened and stared at the wall, speechless before his heaving breaths turned into a roar, rage turning his face red and eyes murderous. In a blind fury, red-hot emotion burning through his veins, John Winchester aimed his pistol at the demon in Erik's fiancee's body—and emptied every bullet he had into her.
"No!" Erik screamed as Megan's body staggered deliriously backwards, the initial shock fading fast from her expression and melting into a victorious smile.
"Send me to hell," the demon choked out through the blood in Megan's throat and chest, a wicked grin stretching her face triumphantly and terrifyingly.
Still not himself in all his anger, John recited the shortest exorcism he knew, right then and there: "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio, et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte, ecclesiam tuam securi tibi, facias libertate servire te rogamus—audi nos!"
With the last words, the two men braced themselves as the demon threw Megan's head back and let out an unearthly roar before billowing out in its suffocating, pitch-black cloud of smoke. Time seemed to stand still then, until Megan collapsed to the floor near the broken glass and Erik rushed forward in a panic.
"Megan? Megan?" Erik repeated over and over again, pulling her head onto his lap as he knelt down. Her bloody auburn curls splayed over her fiance's legs, and blue eyes unblinking, it was clear to the panting John that Megan Sanders was dead. As this fact sunk in and hit Erik, he began to sob and cradle Megan, every iota of pain and misery in his tears. Those sobs racking Erik's body and cutting through the night haunted John for years to come.