Digging My Own Grave
::
I look, I don't touch
It's really no big deal
I'll quit it when I feel I have seen enough
::
Each night John came back to his motel room, to his boys, no happier with this hunt than he was with the last. Granted, the sound of a pistol going off into every sonuvabitch's demonic forehead and the crackling heat of a salt-and-burn was a reward in itself. Nothing was more satisfying than a successful hunt.
But this didn't make him happy. No, he didn't think anything could make him happy—especially not as of late.
His boys were older now and while his eldest still listened to him, the youngest…That was a completely different story. He came home to his unusually quiet eldest (so unusual his hand automatically went to his flask of holy water at his hip) and his unsurprisingly quiet, sulking youngest.
He knew he didn't deserve a Father of the Year Award what with how he raised his sons, and they were still too young to understand why he did what he did, but it was for their own protection.
Maybe he was digging his own grave but he knew his time was bound to be up sooner or later. And he wouldn't lose his sons like he lost Mary.
No, he promised himself. He would never let anything like that happen to him again.