Raised Like Warriors
Part VII. Down that Path
Dean: You know what's out there!
Sam: Yeah I know but still-- the way we grew up after mom was killed, and dad's obsession to find the thing that killed her, but we still haven't found the damn thing, so we kill everything we can find.
February 1, 1984
The graveyard dirt was heavy and damp. John felt his muscles strain, pleasantly warm, beginning to tire. Sweat soaked through his shirt as he strained to empty the grave. He and Elkins worked in shifts, one keeping watch while the other shoveled. They maintained a companionable silence. The moon was at a quarter phase, casting barely a sliver of light on the two hunters. They were doing Harriet first, figuring that it she was the one responsible for the revenge killings. There was a ghost sighting in '89 which seemed to match the description of Charles Parker's wandering spirit, so Elkins thought that if they had time they would do his corpse, too.
Funny how logical it all sounded. John grinned grimly to himself. He had just snuck into a graveyard, was digging up a dead body. If he was caught, they would take away his children. They might put him in jail. His investigation would be cut short. Well, don't get caught, he thought to himself. It just wasn't an option.
Not much intimidated John Winchester. He had a reputation in the marines for being deadly effective. His tactics may have been unconventional; John never backed down when he thought he was right, which was most of the time, actually. He had been good at giving orders, not so much at taking them. But he earned the respect of even his biggest critics by getting results.
John had reread the newspapers surrounding the incident in 1929. Harriet Yates, born in Denver. Engagement to Charles Parker was announced in the fall. Wedding was set for May 11th. Charlie was killed on the 10th. God damn fool, John thought. He had little sympathy for weak willed idiots like him. He and Mary had been married in May. The 31st. Been married a year and a half when Dean was born. Funny how you never know how good you have it until everything you love is ripped away.
These kinds of thoughts led down a dangerous path, so John focused on the feel of the shovel in his hands, friction making his hands hot and oozy. He wasn't calloused like Elkins. Yet, anyway.
He flexed the sore fingers. Elkins, taking that as his cue to do another round, lowered himself into the considerable sized hole. John watched the shadows, ready for any possible threat. Pulling himself to the top of the mound, he kept watch. He stayed loose, shifting rhythmically and silently to keep his muscles from cramping up. Who knew when their lives might depend on his quick reaction time.
There was a sudden drop in temperature and the EMF detector Elkins had brought started beeping harshly. Daniel swore.
"Keep digging," John said, his voice steady. I'll take care of it."
The EMF indicated that the presence was concentrated to the north, John focused his attention there, but at first there was nothing to see. Suddenly he was accosted by a gust of unnaturally strong wind, debris from the graveyard bowling into his face and eyes and clouding his vision. He caught a glimpse of her as his eyes blinked away the dirt. Ghostly white and terrible, she screamed in anger.
John raised his shot gun, taking aim.
"No!" Elkins yelled, struggling to be heard above the gale and the terrible wail. "You'll bring the cops down on us!"
Most men would have wavered before engaging a ghost in intimate combat, but John wasn't like most men. He seized the iron rod and approached her slowly, determinedly. With each step the night grew colder. The ghost sucked the heat from the air, so that John could see his breath condense in the air in front of him with each breath. He tightened his grip around the poker. A shudder of reality brought the ghost close enough to lay her icy, transparent hand on John's cheek. He gasped as she sucked his life force. His skin became cold and his knees weakened as if from loss of blood.
"John!" yelled Elkins.
John ignored the pain, grunting with effort as he raised the iron rod and swung it hard through spirit's translucent body. There was no resistance, like he had swung through air, but the spirit disappeared, howling.
"She'll be back. Give me a hand with this." Elkins yelled.
John stumbled as he tried to move his heavy feet, but soon regained his balance. Elkins hit the coffin a moment later, but it took a little work to break through the heavy lid. John thought he was prepared for the sight that lay before them, but couldn't help the chill that worked its way up his spine at the sight of the decomposed body. It seemed so naked before them, bare bones gleaming. Elkins didn't react, used to this kind of thing. He pressed the salt into John's hand while he doused the coffin with lighter fluid. John did his job, shaking off the numbness and bringing life back to his chilled body. They stepped back and Elkin's tossed in a match. There was a sudden heat and John stared into the fire, watched it purify the bones, sever the link that held the spirit in this world.
The two men didn't say anything more, just gathered their things while the fire raged, then when it died of its own accord they covered it with the displaced earth. Ashes to ashes, John thought. Sometimes I guess we need a little help getting there, though.
They moved on to Charlie's grave next. Half- way though his spirit came to watch, but did so listlessly from afar. He didn't give them any trouble and when they lit his bones, he dissipated like smoke.
Elkin's grinned and offered to buy John a beer once they had slammed closed the trunk of the impala on the shovels and supplies. John was tempted to comply, but remembered he had a babysitter waiting for him at home. He swallowed panic as his imagination momentarily went wild, filling his head with all the gruesome things that might have happened while he left his family exposed. No emotion showed on his face, but he declined Daniel's invitation, promising that there would be other nights.
Driving home in the dark, John's eyes were trained on the highway in front of him but his mind was roving even further abroad. He wondered what Mary would think of him, smelling like smoke and caked in mud. He would be a stranger to her. Where would this path lead him? He asked, uncertainly. Nowhere good, that's for sure. But there weren't any other paths, only darkness to his right and to his left.
It was 12:30 when he pulled into the driveway of the rented house, which looked tired in the darkness. Before he entered, John changed his shirt and kicked a little mud from his boots, hoping to appear a little less of a shady character. He walked in, finding Leslie there, reading a book. She looked up and he was struck by how alive she seemed. For a moment he couldn't help hating her for it. Why did she live when so many others died? When he was dead inside and there was no help for him except through these terrible midnight jobs.
"How were they?" He asked, burying his inappropriate emotions.
"Like angels." Leslie replied, smiling. "They were great. Dean drew you a picture. I taped it to the fridge."
"Thanks for doing this," John said, writing her a check and dismissing her as soon as possible.
He found himself standing at the doorway to the boys' room. The sight of Dean, lying there, looking so young but being older than Mary had ever known him, was tonight like a lance through the heart. Sammy, John thought, you poor little kid. I'm all you've got… and I'm nothing without her.
He moved away from them, knowing that Dean didn't like the smell of smoke. Instead he went down to the kitchen. He stared blindly at the crayon figures that had taken up residence on the dingy fridge. They were labeled: Mom, Dad, Sammy and Dean. Carefully, very carefully, he took the picture down. He walked into his bedroom and pulled all the laundry from his dresser drawer. He lay the picture down, looking heartbrokenly at the stick legs. Then he buried the family under his clothes.
Leaving them to rest in peace, John took a bottle of tequila from the kitchen and drank himself to sleep.
Author's note: Okay, that was more depressing than I intended, but I really meant to do some analysis of John as a character and we all know that this is a demon he will struggle with for the rest of his life. Dean and Sam centered stories to follow, but I wanted to go in order. Please review!