I see the bad moon a-risin'
I see trouble on the way
I see earthquakes and lightnin'
I see bad times today
Don't go 'round tonight
It's bound to take your life
There's a bad moon on the rise
Hope you got your things together
Hope you are quite prepared to die
Looks like we're in for nasty weather
One eye is taken for an eye
"Bad Moon Rising," by Creedence Clearwater Revival, 1969.
Consider yourselves warned.
The twins were beside themselves—Sam with worry and Cass with rage—and DJ just felt sick. Their room was trashed; the door was off its hinges and there were bullet holes in the hideous wallpaper. Either no one else was staying in this godforsaken motel on Christmas Eve or they were dead set on minding their own business, because there wasn't even an angry manager to shout profanities at them while they numbly sifted through the wreckage, gathering up their things.
"There's no blood," Dad observed grimly. "That means they're still alive."
No blood, maybe, but the carpet around dad's bags was scorched.
"Did you hex these?" DJ inquired, somewhat surprised to find that neither the spellbooks nor the weapons had been disturbed.
"Good thing I did," Dad muttered, slinging the bag of books over his shoulder and hefting the weapons bag one-handed. "Let's go; they had to know we'd be right behind them."
He led the way back out to the parking lot, where Castiel was stoically keeping watch; Crowley had fucked off somewhere, probably offended that he wasn't the center of attention.
"Do I need to do a tracking spell, or can you do it by scent?" Dad prompted the twins, looking back and forth between them as he popped the trunk of his sedan.
"It's too fucking cold out here," Cass growled, kicking at a chunk of ice and sending it skidding across the pavement. "It's already fading."
"What do you need?" DJ asked his dad, shouldering in beside him to assist in rummaging through his gear. "You want the tripod and pendulum?"
"Too slow," Dad said shortly, passing him jars of mugwort, pokeroot, and cowslip. "Where the hell did I put my black candles? Shit, I don't even know if I have a paper map of Chicago."
Behind them, there was a soft whoosh of displaced air; Sam whined quietly and tapped DJ on the shoulder. He turned to find Castiel standing there awkwardly, extending a shrink-wrapped street map in their direction.
"Thanks," he said, gratefully plucking it out of the angel's hands.
"I'm sorry," Castiel apologized to Sam. "I know it's… unnerving."
"I don't do jump scares," Sam offered sheepishly.
"Dude, we hunt ghosts," Cass said disdainfully, making a face.
"Yeah, well," Sam shrugged. "I don't like them , either."
"Just wait until the first time he drags you along with him," Dad grumbled ominously, emerging from the trunk with candles, mortar and pestle. "I recommend Metamucil."
He tromped around to the front of the car, a jerk of his chin indicating that DJ should follow, and proceeded to turn the hood into an impromptu work surface. He spread the map out over it, pinning the corners down with the heavy pillar candles; DJ cupped his hands around dad's lighter, shielding it from the wind just long enough to get them lit.
"Should we really be doing this in the parking lot?" Sam wanted to know, eyes darting around nervously as dad began to grind the herbs and chant quietly in Latin.
DJ shrugged; it certainly wasn't the strangest place he'd ever watched his old man work a little magic. Sam didn't find his nonchalance comforting, and Cass appeared similarly uneasy. As dad was setting one corner of the map alight and finishing up the incantation with a firm, "Igni fiat notum," DJ's phone buzzed insistently in his pocket; fishing it out, he saw Ennis Ross' contact details flash across the screen.
"Hello?" He stepped away from the group to answer the call.
"Boy, have I got news for you," Ennis said, bypassing a greeting. "I called Violet Duval—well, I guess she's a Roth, now—to see if she had a good number for David; she doesn't, but DJ… she's here in Chicago."
"Ennis," DJ tried to interrupt, watching the twins start back in alarm as the map flared up for a moment before going out. "I need to tell you something."
"I told her what's been going on, and she's on our side," Ennis continued. "She hasn't forgotten what your dad did for her and David; she even said she'd go to see Julian, if that's what it takes."
"No, she can't!" DJ burst out, somewhat frantic. "Ennis, Julian Duval is dead."
That finally seemed to get through to the older man, who cut himself off abruptly.
"What happened?" he demanded.
"We don't know; not for sure, anyway, but—" DJ took a gulp of frigid air, heart still going a mile a minute. "We think David might have killed him; he's walking around wearing Duval's face."
"What!?"
Dad snatched up the remaining scrap of the map and squinted at it, half-blind without his glasses, scrutinizing it closely in the fading afternoon light; this late in the year, they'd be lucky if it wasn't full dark by supper time.
"DJ!" Ennis prompted urgently. "Talk to me; how do you know that?"
"Uh, Costa," DJ answered distractedly as dad started packing away spell materials. "But listen, Ennis, that's not all. Did you know that David's a werewolf?"
Ross' sharp intake of breath was telling, but so was the silence that followed
"No," he said finally, hesitantly. "I didn't know , but I… I suspected. I should've told you before."
"Dean!" Dad cut in sharply, slamming the trunk. "Hang up; I've got a location."
"I gotta go," DJ said obediently, heading back towards the car. "Lassiter's got Sam and Cass' folks, and we've got to get them back."
"Wait! DJ!"
The phone started ringing again almost immediately, but DJ ignored it, slipping it back into his pocket to free up his hands for the extra magazines dad was shoving at him.
"Keys," Cass barked, gesturing for them. "Me and Sam will follow you."
"Nope," Dad said, throwing out a hand to prevent DJ from handing them over. "Sam can ride with me; you and Dean stick together. With a wolf in each car, hopefully we won't get blindsided."
It was a good point—hard to argue—and DJ could appreciate his dad's subtlety. Cass' eyes were bright gold and his teeth had been out for a while now; letting him get behind the wheel while he was itching for a fight was a recipe for disaster.
"Right," DJ nodded, stashing the spare ammo. "Come on, Cass."
He turned to go and almost collided with Crowley, who chose that moment to reappear.
"We don't have time for this!" The demon hissed, side-stepping DJ to stalk towards dad. "What part of, 'The daeva are on a killing spree in Elk Creek,' did you not understand!?"
"I understand, Crowley," Dad bit out angrily, wrenching open his driver's side door. "But it doesn't matter; I still don't know how to stop them."
"Yes, you do," Crowley spat, lip curling. "But you're a bloody coward; you should have taken care of him when he was just a boy. Who knows if he even can be killed, now!"
"People thought the same thing about me, once," Dad replied, jaw tightening. "That killing me would stop an apocalypse. They were wrong."
"Fine!" The demon snapped, throwing up his hands. "I'll do it myself."
He was gone again faster than DJ could blink; for a second, dad just stood there with his expression torn wide open, an utter wreck of guilt and indecision.
"I'll go after Crowley," Castiel said gruffly, taking pity on him. "I should be able to keep him from doing anything stupid. But Sam…" he sighed heavily, fixing dad with an inscrutable look. "You cannot avoid this forever; the lesser princes are getting bolder. We need to find Jesse Turner, before they do."
When the angel had gone, Dad turned to Sam.
"Get in the car," he said tersely. "We don't have much time."
It was a long, tense ride from the motel, down from the city proper to the East Side industrial area near the river. Traffic was heavy, which was not a huge surprise on Christmas Eve, but Cass was practically snarling every time DJ so much as tapped the brakes.
"Would you cut it out?" DJ muttered, distressed, after the third time it happened. "I know you're worried; we all are. We're gonna get them back, dude."
"You don't know that," Cass countered, extending and retracting his claws against his knees.
"It didn't seem like David wanted anyone to get hurt, Cass," DJ pointed out quietly. "He tried to talk Margo out of it."
"He went along with her in the end, DJ," Cass snorted derisively. "He attacked your dad in the middle of a fucking restaurant; we've got no idea what he's capable of."
DJ didn't have a good response to that—or any response at all, really—so he decided to shut up and concentrate on keeping dad's tail lights in view.
"Dad was right," Cass went on, leaning his forehead against the window. "None of this was worth it."
It was pitch black by the time they turned down an access road along a man-made promontory, the back end fishtailing wildly while DJ's front tires churned up the muddy gravel. He swore softly as he threw the van into park, willing his hands to stop shaking. He had to get a grip; his friends needed him.
"I've been here before," Dad told them as they stepped out into the night, frowning darkly up at the hulking silos. "Which isn't great, but at least I know the way. Stay behind me, and be ready to shoot. We have no idea what we're walking into."
"It would be better if one of us went first," Sam pointed out, aiming his borrowed Smith & Wesson at the ground as he disengaged the safety. "You can't see in the dark."
"I'll cover you," Dad conceded without argument, glancing sideways at Cass. "Be careful."
Following dad's whispered directions, Sam led them along grated catwalks, past exposed framing and ductwork, deep into the bowels of the long-abandoned building. He brought them to a standstill at the first sign of occupancy, cocking his head to one side to listen a moment before turning to his brother with a questioning look and holding up three fingers. Cass sniffed experimentally at the musty air and shook his head.
"More," he mouthed. "Fuck."
"Come on, man, this is crazy," they could hear Garth saying as they crept out onto the mezzanine; DJ sighed in relief. "Just let us go, and we'll never bother you again."
Sam moved aside, indicating that dad should take point; the twins moved as one to flank him, leaving DJ to guard their backs. The lighting was poor, but neither Garth nor Bess looked like they'd been seriously hurt; they mostly just looked pissed off, dangling by their wrists from the underside of the scaffolding. While Garth calmly attempted to reason with David—still masquerading as Julian Duval—Bess struggled and pulled at her restraints. Handcuffs, DJ noted, with no small amount of irritation; it was unlikely that either of them would be able to get themselves free.
"Can you keep him busy?" he murmured, taking one hand off his weapon in order to palm his key ring. "I've got a universal on here."
"Yeah, I've got you," Cass said quietly before pitching his voice to carry. "Hey, douchebag!" he shouted down at Lassiter, announcing their presence.
Dad made an exasperated sound and Sam grumbled something rude, but for all its juvenile lack of sophistication, Cass' name-calling provided the perfect distraction. David's head spun around like it was on a swivel, teeth bared and eyes glittering dangerously, and DJ was able to slip across unnoticed to the other side of the raised walkway.
"Sam," David ignored Cass and his insults, acknowledging only dad. "Glad you could join us. Where's the slayer? Your brother."
Dad's expression hardened, and Lassiter didn't miss it.
"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "He's dead, isn't he? Just like mine."
DJ had never hunted a shapeshifter before, and he'd never even heard of one that didn't have to change their skin, but David's features rippled and rearranged themselves before his very eyes. His hair went shorter and lighter, his shoulders broadened, and a cleft appeared in his chin as five o'clock shadow sprouted there. DJ stared, enthralled, as Lassiter's eyes flicked over from brown to green; he'd only ever seen that face in photographs.
"Son of a bitch," Garth gasped, slack-jawed at the sight.
"Better?" The shifter taunted, grinning; his voice had dropped in register, and dad had gone white as a sheet.
"Stop it," Dad rasped, pained. "Please."
"So dramatic," David Lassiter scoffed, rolling Dean Winchester's eyes.
Elsewhere in the building, DJ could hear the echoing footsteps of trouble on its way. He forcibly redirected his attention, laying himself out prone on the platform above Bess and reaching down through the steel slats to release her cuffs.
"You don't have to do this," Dad said as the universal key snicked in the lock; DJ could hear him starting down the stairs. "You can still walk away, live your own life."
"And how did that work out for you?" David wanted to know. "Walking away from the family business? Tried that once already; didn't stick. It's in my blood."
"Uh, Big Sam? We've got company!" Sam called out.
As Bess dropped lightly onto the balls of her feet, DJ chanced a glance up. Cass and Sam had gone back to back on the landing, braced for impact as members of the Duval pack flooded the enclosed space.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," he whispered to himself as he shuffled over to Garth on his elbows.
He'd only just slid the key home when he was yanked violently upright by the scruff of the neck and tossed up against the safety barrier; it knocked the wind out of him, and only a reflexive grab for the railing kept him from going over. Panicking, DJ whirled to face his attacker; he swung a wild punch, connecting only by dumb luck.
"DJ!" Garth shouted in alarm as the hostile werewolf spat blood and advanced, licking its chops.
DJ scrabbled for his gun, but he missed his chance to shoot when Cass crashed in from the side, taking the other werewolf down in a tangle of limbs and gnashing teeth.
"Man, I can't take you fucking anywhere," Cass complained when he was finished, grabbing DJ by the arm. "Come on; we've got to get the hell out of here."
All around them, everything was sound and fury. Dad was holding his own against two wolves, moving with lethal precision that came with long years of practice and experience. Bess faced off against a trio, formidable by herself but soon to have a former hunter backing her up; Garth had apparently gotten loose all on his own and was snarling and slashing his way across the room to get to her. DJ couldn't see Lassiter anywhere—or Duval or Dean, for that matter—but he spotted Sam huddled behind a barrel, bleeding freely from a wound on his thigh.
"There," DJ pointed, shrugging out of Cass' grip. "Cover me."
DJ ran, trusting Cass to follow, taking the stairs two at a time down to the main level. He ducked behind the barrel where Sam was hiding, tucking the Colt back into his waistband and crouching down to examine the leg.
"Knife or bullet?" He demanded, reaching out to assess the damage.
"DJ, no!" Cass shouted urgently. "It's not him!"
DJ looked up to find himself staring down the barrel of Sam's gun. No, not Sam; fucking shapeshifters. He threw his hands up to protect his face; pure, useless instinct.
"David," he pleaded, ducking his head in submission. "I just want to help."
"You can't," David said shakily, though his trigger finger was steady. "No one can."
"David!" A feminine voice rang out above them. "Stop!"
Too late.
DJ shut his eyes as the shot was fired; an involuntary response. He fell backwards and to one side, where he lay confused for long moments about why there was no pain; it wasn't until he heard Cass groan that he realized it was because his friend had jerked him out of the way at the last second, taking the bullet meant for him.
"Oh god," he panted, rolling over. "Cass!"
There was so much blood; too much, too fast. It pooled around DJ's knees and spurted up between his fingers as he applied pressure on autopilot.
"Help!" he cried, frantic. "He needs help, please!"
Cass choked, trying to speak and failing. DJ shushed him gently, fingers slipping as he desperately sought the source of the bleed.
"You're gonna be okay; you're gonna be okay," he repeated, half-sobbing, willing it to be the truth and knowing that it wasn't.
"Cass!" Sam—the real Sam—gave an agonized howl from the other side of the room as the light went out in his brother's eyes.
DJ's pulse roared in his ears. He was only distantly aware that the fighting had stopped; that the werewolves had come to a dumbfounded standstill because David Lassiter had his own face on for once, and was looking up at Violet Roth like she had hung the moon.
"David," she said softly, horrified. "What have you done?"
It wasn't a conscious decision, going for his gun. The steel was hot in his bloodstained hands as DJ staggered to his feet in a blind rage; he'd never been so angry in all his life as when he clocked Lassiter's position, took aim, and fired without hesitation.
I am so, so sorry.
