Author's Note: This is a slice of life, Papa Winchester at the end of a hunt thing that I found today while rummaging through my archives that I remember feeling much more profoundly about at the time than I did when I re-read it today, lol. Despite that, I figured it deserved more of a life than it'd ever see at the bottom of my hard drive so I'm posting it FWIW.
oOo
The weapon slid into its pouch in a slide of steel against leather, a sound so familiar to John Winchester, resting comfortably in its place.
Like coming home . . .
He continued methodically putting each weapon back into the duffle he had carried inside. Some he wiped clean. Had to wipe clean, which he did without a worry about time. He wiped them until they shone. When he was almost finished, he heard steps stutter and stop behind him and he turned, slowly meeting her eyes.
She didn't speak. A face he'd first seen ripped to shreds with emotion was a careful mask now. It seemed to be chiseled from stone, no room for any expression. Without speaking, she turned and headed back the way she'd come. He followed the silent prompt and his boots clonked against the old floorboards of the house, while hers seemed to meet the very same floorboards but never disturb them.
Just a ghost in this house . . .
He stopped steps from her and surveyed her work. Wide, lifeless eyes stared back at him from the floor, even as a puddle spread slowly below.
She gave him a stiff, barely-there nod then walked out of the door without a word.
The end of this hunt should have been cathartic for her, should have meant a release from the anger he knew still bubbled inside her for the way her family, her life, had been torn away from her.
Her family's bodies slashed, blood spattered walls and furniture, children lying slightly behind the husband, as if he'd tried to shield them . . . The son's eyes frozen open in terror . . .
She had planned for this to be the end of her hunting and he hadn't corrected her. Just agreed to help her end this since he was there when the nightmare started.
Didn't get there fast enough . . . Wouldn't say it out loud. Knew she didn't blame him but- . . . Not fast enough . . .
Could've been Sammy lying there-
He didn't bother to tell her that Hunters never stopped hunting. He knew it wasn't over for her. Would never be over for her.
She couldn't bring her family back . . .
He watched from the door as she climbed into her SUV, the only thing left from a once-suburban life, and drove away.
The tires threw up dust in her wake.
He turned to face the living room, assessing the amount of time needed to salt and burn and get back on the road.
He set to work while his mind wandered.
It never ceased to amaze him that all of these things that went bump in the night didn't seem to care that every family member, every loved one, every spouse they left alive was the equivalent of a potential hunter. Someone who could (would) eventually take down every evil thing they could find in their quest for revenge, solace, closure.
Plenty of hunters were born, sure. Sons and daughters whose destiny was already sealed by their parents. Hell, Sam and Dean were examples of that, even if Sam had resisted for a while. There were generations and generations of hunters on the trail of evil . . .
Blue . . . the boys eyes had been blue . . .
Plenty of hunters were born . . . But way too many were made.
oOo
A/A/N: Quote from the summary taken from the tv show "Constantine"