He fired the gun, the sharp report louder than the music coming from inside the building behind him. The shapeshifter — as Bill called it — went down without making a sound. John let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding and lowered his arm.
"Good shot." Bill came around the back of the Impala to stand beside him. "Can't believe the son of a bitch had the balls to come to a place where hunters are known to gather."
"Seemed like he thought he could get away with it."
"Well, Paul Elegy was always an arrogant shit." Bill heaved a sigh. "Always figured he'd end up dead sooner or later."
John went to reply but froze when he heard, "Daddy?"
No, played through his mind over and over. No, don't let him see what I've done. A dull roaring filled his ears as he turned. He felt sick. His son was staring at the large red stain blossoming across the concrete with a mixture of curiosity and confusion.
His fingers trembled on the gun. His heart froze in his chest. Why aren't you inside the roadhouse with Ellen or her niece? Beside him, Bill sword a blue streak. He looked at him, saw he was gazing at Dean with a mixture of horror and guilt on his craggy face. John could well imagine he was thinking about how he'd feel if his daughter, Jo walked out right as he put a bullet in a shapeshifter, werewolf or ghoul.
"Dean..." he managed around the lump in his throat. "What're you doing out here, son?"
"Why'd you shoot him, Daddy?"
Having his son ask that question hurt him a helluva lot more than the nastiest of hangovers ever could. How the hell was he even supposed to answer something like that? His son wasn't old enough to understand that monsters were real. To Dean, monsters were what the Scooby gang dealt with.
"He was a bad man, Dean," he said lamely. "He hurt a lot of people."
The excuse worked to soothe his four-year-old. John knew it'd take a helluva lot longer for it to work on him.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!