A/N: Thanks for reading! Thank you for the follows and favs. Please give me feedback, it encourages me to post more often.
I would like to thank the incredible fic If I Knew Then What I know Now for giving me additional ideas for this fic.
I do not own Supernatural or its characters.
Chapter 9: Monsters Inc.
Dean sat in a bed in a cold motel room some weeks later, watching Daddy check under Dean's bed and in the closet for monsters. Something about his expression was wrong, smile-ish rather than serious, nothing like Dean would have expected from someone possibly about to go up against a bloodthirsty monster any second. He was reminded of when his friend had told him about Santa Clause a year ago. That boy's parents had had the same look on their faces. Then he had asked Mommy about it and she had said Santa wasn't real. He wondered if this was the same sort of thing, a show put on for his benefit. Mommy had never done this, always Daddy. He didn't like the idea that he might have been duped. He decided to settle the matter once and for all. He looked down at Daddy, currently looking under his bed, "Daddy, are monsters real?"
John froze. How could Dean know about that? Was it his journal? He didn't think Dean could read, but then he didn't really know what the boy had been doing and there were pictures in there anyway for future reference. Oh, why did he have to keep that stupid journal? What did he do? Should he tell the truth or lie? Dammit, he wasn't ready for this.
He sat up, tears in his eyes as he studied his son. Of course, it seemed that he knew already. He might just be asking to see if John could be trusted. He took a shaky breath, "Yes. Yes they are. I'm sorry Dean."
Dean's eyes widened. That was not the answer he had been expecting. He glanced uneasily around the room, "They can't get in, can they?"
"No. You're safe in here. See that salt on the windows and doors?" Dean nodded.
"No monster can get past it. Don't worry." Well, no monster he was hunting at the moment, anyway, and it would make Dean feel better. Dean looked back at him, eyes wide with wonder as he whispered, "Are you a superhero?" John chuckled, tucking the boy in and moving to his own bed, "Good night, Dean."
Dean sat awake, long after the others were sleeping, his heart pounding out of his chest. Monsters were real. The idea terrified him, but that wasn't important. He had to protect Sam. An idea came to him. Quietly, he eased himself out of bed, moving to open his duffle. Come on, where was it? Ah! He took out the hunting knife his father had given him for his birthday. Of course, the strange present made sense now. Daddy wanted him to be able to keep himself safe. He walked back to his bed, sliding the weapon under his pillow, then moved Sam from his crib to Dean's bed. He studied his work. There. Any monster wanting to get to Sam would have to go through him first, and he was armed. Satisfied, he lay back down and went to sleep, his arms curled around his brother.
He awoke the next morning to find Daddy gone. Not that he had been expecting him to stick around, but he missed having him there during the day. Still, he had work to do. Now he knew about monsters, this was a whole different ball game. He walked around the room, checking the salt lines. If that was the only thing keeping them safe, he was going to make certain it was doing its job.
He came across a place where a window had been left open, allowing the wind to disturb the salt, and stared at the two-inch hole. What did he do now? He heard Sam wake up, crying of course, and he knew his brother needed help. "Not now, Sammy!" Certainly the one-year-old needed caring for, but this was more important. He struggled to close the window, then looked around the room, trying to find something to fix the line. His gaze fell on a container his father had left by the door. He ran over to it. Yes! Salt. He hurried back to the spot and carefully poured more on the hole. There, they were safe.
He walked back to the baby and picked him up, bouncing him on his hip as he walked, "I'm sorry I didn't come, Sammy. I had to protect you. But don't worry, 'cause, you're always gonna be safe, I'll see to that. Everything's gonna be okay."
John watched as the coroner pulled out the three bodies and spoke, "Well, there they are. Not sure why the FBI is interested in wild animal attacks, but, uh, have fun. I'll leave you to it." He handed John a stack of folders containing case files and coroners reports, and left the room.
John set the folders on the table behind him and turned to the first body. He wasn't surprised it had been put down to wild animals, the man had been torn apart. He studied it, checking the chest cavity. He sighed, just as he had expected. He moved on to the next one, more intact, but still mangled, with the same results. All three were the same. Mauled to death, and no heart. He looked around the room for a phone. He was pretty sure he remembered right, but he wanted to double-check. Ah! He tucked the receiver under his chin and, glancing at the address book from his pocket, dialed.
"Hello?" Came a familiar, annoyed voice.
"Hey, Bobby?"
"John? What the hell-" He decided to interrupt Bobby's usual greeting tirade.
"Um, yeah. I'm calling you from the morgue of this town somewhere. Three bodies, mauled, no heart. That means werewolf, right?"
"Yep. I told you that while you were at my place. Why are you calling me now?"
"Just double-checking."
"Okay. And you use silver to kill them, before you ask. And make sure your head's attached to your shoulders before you leave."
"Yeah, yeah. I know. Hey, do werewolves ever hunt in packs?"
"No, they're pretty solitary, that's more of a vampire thing, why?"
"Just wondering."
"How're those boys of yours?"
"They're, uh, yeah, they're great. Werewolf, silver, just one, got it. Bye Bobby." He hung up before the man could ask any more questions.
He walked out of the hospital, glad to be out in the fresh spring air away from the mutilated cadavers. He pushed the sight out of his mind. There was nothing he could do for them. All he could do was catch this thing before it killed again. He drove to a secluded area to plan his next move, then got out of the car and walked around to the trunk.
He opened it, then lifted the false floor Bobby had put in before he left. It was a good idea, he had to admit. Nice contained storage space that hid the arsenal from prying eyes. He took in the stash. There wasn't much, as yet, a couple of guns, some knives, some other, more specialized weapons Bobby had given him. Silver. That was what he needed. He searched through it all, finally coming across a long silver knife. Not quite what he had been hoping for, but then, beggars can't be choosers, and this thing needed to be stopped. He tossed it back in and closed the trunk, leaning against the car as he considered. Right. The next step was finding the thing. A map.
He purchased a map of the area from a nearby convenience store, and got to work, the map spread on the right, his notes on the case files on the left. Consulting with the notes, he mapped the deaths, and drew a circle. There, it was likely to be somewhere inside that circle. Of course, it was always possible that it had a larger hunting ground, but he could only hope that wasn't the case. The last full moon was tonight, and he was determined to end this.
He drove into an alley as night fell, exiting the car and sliding the knife into his belt. He knew everything he could know, and now he just had to find the thing. Maybe it would consider him an attractive meal. He scoffed, like he'd be that lucky. He walked the streets of the delineated area, watching carefully for werewolf activity. After about thirty minutes he heard a snuffling sound and dived behind a dumpster, peeking out a second later to see what he was up against. His fingers closed around the hilt of the knife.
A homeless man shuffled into view, sniffing in an apparent cold. John was highly annoyed. What was this idiot doing out? Some people were trying to conduct a successful hunt over here! Then he heard it, a deep growl, behind him. He dodged to one side as the werewolf swiped at his shoulder, whirling around to see it. He paused in shock. It looked like a man. Sure he had long sharp teeth, and his nails were clawlike, and his eyes had a wolf-like luminosity, but it was definitely, recognizably human. He came to himself just in time to dodge another attack. However it was ready this time, and grabbed him up, tossing him through the air to land painfully on the pavement, then jumped on top of him. He yelled in agony as it dug into his shoulder with its claws, before he grabbed it to hold it in place, preventing the werewolf from ripping out any flesh. The thing was incredibly strong, and he wouldn't be able to hold onto it long, but hopefully his strength would last long enouph. He pulled the knife out of his belt, and shoved it into the creature's belly. It howled in pain, and released him. Great. He had been hoping for a kill shot, but apparently it was only slightly wounded. They circled each other warily, both panting and sluggish from pain and blood loss. It rushed him, and he readied himself, meeting its charge and stabbing it in the heart. It fell to the ground, and he collapsed to his knees, exhaustion and adrenaline taking its toll. The creature's wolf-like features faded and it moaned, then its eyes went wide, "What- where am I? What's going on? Oh my God! I think I'm bleeding! Help! Sir! Help me please! What's happening?" He felt sick. The man had no idea what he was, had no idea he was brutally murdering people, a victim just as much as the people in the morgue. He couldn't bear to stay any longer. The man continued his pleas as John staggered to his feet, taking the knife from where it had fallen and struggling to walk to the Impala. The wolf wouldn't last long, he knew that, its wounds were too severe.
Dean heard the door unlock and smiled. Daddy was back! He ran towards it and stopped. It was awful. Daddy walked in, leaning heavily on the door, covered in blood, his face a mixture of pain and horror. Dean went to hug him, comfort him as he had every other time, back before he had known the truth, and his father stumbled, before erupting in curses and yelling, "What are you trying to do, you stupid kid? Trip me? Get out of the way." Dean hurried backward, and Daddy made his way to sit on his bed. Dean watched him, puzzled and concerned, Daddy never talked like that. Well, sometimes he and Mommy had fought, then he had talked like that, to Mommy, shortly before walking out and slamming the door, but not since the fire. What was going on? Had he done something wrong? It must have been very bad for Daddy to be this angry. He watched as Daddy stripped off his shirt, revealing a horrid-looking wound on his shoulder. The man probed it with his fingers, his face contorting in pain as he did so, before speaking to Dean, "Dean. I need you to go get me the first aid kit," The boy stood for a few seconds, staring at the wound in shock. "NOW!" He startled at the voice, and ran to fetch it.
Some time later, John sat on the bed, a bandage on his wounded shoulder. He needed a shower, and they should leave soon, but he was so tired and just wanted to sit for a few minutes. Dean approached him cautiously, "Daddy?"
"Yeah, sport?"
"What happened?" realization came over the boy's face, "Was it a monster?"
He nodded, "Yeah. But I got it."
Dean visibly relaxed, "I'm glad. Daddy?"
"Hmm?"
"It's okay."
He smiled, "That obvious, huh?" Dean ran to him and crawled up on the bed, before throwing his arms around his father in a hug. John grunted as an arm brushed his injured shoulder, then turned to pat his son's back, "Thanks Dean. I uh, I need a shower now, so, if you could let me go?" Dean released him and he walked off toward the bathroom, glad he would finally be able to wash the blood off, and hopefully the memory of the dying man with it.
