A/N Thank you to everyone who has been reading and reviewing. Thanks to the guests and clifthanger that I can't respond to personally. This chapter has some pretty graphic torture in it. It's also not my usual month time period format as I decided it was much too important to skimp on. You have been warned.
Which one of you is John Winchester?
/
Henry Winchester had known from a young age that with his last name came no small amount of duty and obligation.
From the dawn of the civilized age there have always been certain professions where tradition dictated that the players involved are routinely members of very specific families.
Royalty of course.
Where the literal crowns would be handed down from father to son. Glacially slowly evolving to an accepted practice of mother to daughter as well as a matter of necessity when too many families had only female heirs.
Politics.
Not all that dissimilar to royal families considering the copious uses of the titles, jewels and large grandiose mansions. Elections made significantly easier by the familial name recognition that too often was the sole impetus to pull a lever along with an established working knowledge of the inner mechanics of the movers and shakers that financed costly bids.
In worse case scenarios, politics begat dictatorships.
Still with money and the luxurious trappings of life. Along with the transfer of power from one family member to another that wasn't hampered by the annoying silly little details of actually holding elections. Usually to make sure that a particularly awful human being got away with basically enslaving the citizens of the third world countries they were ruling with a bloody iron fist.
Banking and Industry.
The professional hallmarks of the upper echelons of nepotism and the right connections that occasionally got breached by a particularly aggressive upstart that forced themselves into the lofty ranks of historic families who usually didn't appreciate sharing the influence they wielded.
And then there's the Men of Letters.
It had never been a secret in the Winchester household that young Henry was expected to follow in the footsteps of his father and grandfather and all of the Winchester men before them in the pursuit of knowledge and truth and in service to the betterment of humankind.
He was a prince of another variety. Born into a family of privilege and knowledge that had been tapped early to carry the torch of study and information.
They were preceptors. Beholders. Chroniclers of all that which man does not understand.
A select few of carefully chosen scholars that carried the wisdom of Solomon and all the secrets of the universe down through the ages. One generation after another. As much of a dynasty as any of the other lofty family professions ever were.
It was a pretty hefty responsibility for a young boy.
It was also something that was never talked about outside of their very nice, very tidy, very average home in the aptly named Normal, IL.
As far as the world at large knew, Henry's father Eric was just an above average looking family man that was no more and no less different from any others in their typical upper middle class neighborhood. Always polite and formal, but friendly. An honorable man who loved his country, as evidenced by his respectable job as a colonel in the US Air Force, and who was away on active duty more often than he was at home.
When he was home he was the perfect husband and father. Active in the community. Church on Sundays. Evenings at a respectable Gentleman's Club, like most well heeled men of his status and generation.
He was, without a doubt, the guy you wanted living next door to you.
Only Henry and his mother, along with the members of that certain Gentleman's Club, knew that the distinguished and well liked colonel would eventually also become a covert operative in the Secret Intelligence branch of the Office of Strategic Services during the tumultuous days of WWII.
That itself wasn't a surprise to them, because it was the duty of a full fledged Man of Letters to keep a low profile while also being ready to insert himself into the places where the years of knowledge that he would have learned could be of most use. Active military service wasn't normally one of the most common forms of day jobs that the Letters chose to help them blend into society at large, but in times of crisis it was a necessity and certain family branches of the various chapters would tap a member to heed the call.
Eric's own father had served in WWI and it had never occurred to him to choose to do anything else with his life besides follow in his father's footsteps both to the military and in his pursuit of initiation into the Men of Letters. That's what the Winchester men did, and as long as they were alive there was always going to be hope for the world they served.
Of course being a legacy of the Letters himself Henry had also known that his father served a greater purpose than his military rank during the course of the war. Just like his mother had somehow known that her husband wouldn't come home at the end of it.
The thing about dynastic professions is their tendency to also encourage dynastic marriages as well, and with the secretive nature of the Men of Letters as it was, pairings between its legacies was the rule rather than the exception simply because a certain level of understanding was needed to make a successful go of it.
For one, it was generally difficult to hide your extra studies such as they were from your spouse when sometimes work could follow you home and leave no real easy way to explain things that have to be seen to be believed.
The lab you might set up in your basement to practice spells and incantations could possibly set off some alarm bells of mental health issues to a wife who didn't know for sure that it was for legitimate purposes and not something a little more nefarious or troubling like devil worship.
You also couldn't very well be popping off around the world on covert missions at the drop of a hat if your spouse was left with the impression that there was possibly another woman in the picture.
Especially if you wanted to return home and still be in her good books after tracking down a powerful talisman cursed by a vengeful goddess who was spurned by a lover and that left a questionable rash on parts where no one ever wanted one.
The love connections could be difficult at times, because the worldwide roster of the Letters was not excessively large and it was quite spread out geographically. It was still manageable however, because the various Chapter Houses made a diligent effort to be known to one another for a number of reasons and potential mates were brought into each other's orbit fairly early in life.
Being a Winchester carried a certain degree of notoriety in these rarified circles. The natural happenstance of being one of the oldest family branches recorded in the annals of MOL history where genealogy was tracked and catalogued every bit as diligently as the subjects they studied. Henry's mother was a Henshaw. A family not quite as old as the Winchesters, but still very respectable on the secret societal food chain.
Mrs. Winchester also had an older brother Clifford. A highly trained active member himself that had been assigned to a very hush-hush location at the start of the war and who had immediately gone radio silent to almost all that knew him.
She knew from her own mother's experience what the reason for that level of silence inevitably turned out to be. So she was more than a little wary when he reached out and contacted her husband through MOL back channels for his OSS assistance with a field mission for one of the European teams involving something as intimidating and fanciful as an actual Hand of God.
As a female member of the dynasty she was not exactly encouraged to join their little boys club, and being the traditional wife and mother sort who felt that her job was already the most important one she could do, she also wasn't particularly interested in bucking the trend to become a Woman of Letters either.
She concentrated on caring for her son and their home while the two men in her life carried out the family business, but that didn't mean that she wasn't every bit as intelligent and observant as they were.
She might have kept her thoughts to herself regarding the war time actions of the MOL, but she knew all too well the tremendous risks they were prepared to take in their quest to defeat that scourge known as Hitler. The Letters were scholars and observers for the most part but their work often came at a price during times of great strife.
So when her husband and her brother were both called away on a joint mission to France after a member of the French team failed in theirs, she knew down deep in her heart that she was never going to see either one of them ever again.
It turned out to be a prophetic position to have on the matter.
Henry was only fifteen when his father and uncle died, leaving his instruction into the ways of the Letters largely incomplete. It had always been his father's desire to personally navigate his son through the challenging waters of their research and practice right up to his own initiation, but he had only lived long enough to see Henry through to his second level of knowledge. After that, Henry's tutelage was taken over by other members of the Normal Chapter House where he found more than one mentor happily willing to continue his education.
Like all legacies, once Henry graduated from high school he began to cultivate the split lifestyle that a Man of Letters would require in their daily life. Upon advice from his mentors he enrolled at Northwestern University in Chicago where he pursued a degree in engineering during the week as a matter of obtaining education and training that would fill a need with the chapter one day.
Still in training as a legacy, he also regularly returned to Normal on the weekends to continue his Letters studies. Days and days of lessons in mathematics and physics would then give way to lessons in magic and lore which didn't leave a lot of time to mix and mingle for a young man about town.
Not that it mattered.
One ordinary Monday morning a couple of years before Henry's father passed away he had instructed his wife to take their son for a fitting for his first black tie suit. Just so that he would have something appropriate to wear for his preliminary introduction to members outside of their home chapter.
A formal banquet sponsored by the St. Louis Chapter House was to be held in the very nice ballroom of the Magnolia Hotel and the Winchesters' presence had been requested along with the members with young adult children from the other chapter houses scattered around the Midwestern states.
By long standing tradition there would be no business discussed at this event. It was an occasion specifically for spouses and legacies to be warmly welcomed for a sumptuous dinner and then an evening dancing to the music of a hired orchestra. It had also been several years since the last time either of the adult Winchesters attended one of these gatherings and Mrs. Winchester was thrilled to be able to have an opportunity to finally wear the extravagant pearl and diamond demi-parure that Eric had given her a few years earlier on their 10th wedding anniversary.
It was there that young thirteen year old Henry was first introduced to James Haggerty and his beautiful granddaughter Camilla.
Still feeling very grown up after being allowed his first half glass of wine with their dinner, Henry was sitting alone at their table and watching his parents gliding on the dance floor, the train of his mother's elegant chiffon gown sweeping behind them. Dressed in his well tailored tux, his brown hair slicked back neatly, Henry was just an awkward hormonal boy in an unfamiliar place filled with unfamiliar people
He didn't know quite what hit him when the dancing crowd seemed to part and he caught his first glimpse of the lovely Camilla.
A very pretty and petite girl who was clearly similar to him in age, her shy smile of pearl white teeth immediately made him blush. An angel come to life right there in the Magnolia ballroom. She was wearing a knee length dress of pale pink organza with a puffy skirt and a large bow at her waist that made her look as delicate as a china doll. One thin spaghetti strap of her bodice clipped with a spray of rosebuds adorned with mossy green leaves that perfectly matched her bright eyes.
He felt his pulse race and his throat go dry and if someone had expected him to speak at that exact moment he was sure that his recently changed voice would crack and stutter and in general make a big fool out of him.
It was love at first sight, even with Camilla's craggy faced and frowning grandfather standing directly behind her.
James Haggerty was another well known name among the members of the various chapter houses. Retired now, and what some would unkindly say a little touched from a horrible encounter that no one talked ever about, James rarely made the effort to attend these kinds of functions anymore. But he was still devoted to their cause and also more than a little bitter over the non-dynastic marriage of his only daughter.
Making him even more determined that his only granddaughter would be convinced to choose a man that shared his beliefs.
Originally part of the British Men of Letters contingent, James' introduction into the ways of the Letters was a bit more...intense...than that of the American fellows that he spent much of his professional life working with.
In an environment of men with already high standards for behavior and belief, James was especially devoted to his work, which unfortunately came at the cost of an unhappy marriage. James' wife might have been born with the stiff upper lip of a proper Englishwoman but she had the soft heart of a romantic that wanted to be cherished and adored by her husband.
Something which James was decidedly incapable of doing.
Mrs. Haggerty's sole pregnancy gave her husband a daughter and she never truly recovered from James' obvious disappointment of not having a male legacy to carry on the family tradition. Although she adored her child, she slowly wilted away in her marital loneliness until a severe bout of pneumonia took her life when she was only twenty-nine.
Feeling enormous guilt when his neglected wife died so young and with no desire to return to England and the morally questionable practices of the British Men of Letters, James in his belated grief took a voluntary long term assignment at a covert location somewhere in the Midwestern region and eventually returned to his home chapter house a very emotionally scarred man.
James' daughter, raised more or less by a hired nanny in her father's absence, might have understood and possibly even respected the traditions of the Letters and the work her father did on some level, but not enough to prevent her eventual union with a man she married for love and not lineage.
Sent to boarding school at Miss Porter's as a young girl and then to college at Radcliffe, the beautiful and headstrong Miss Haggerty eschewed her Ivy League education and her father's desires that she marry within legacy guidelines and fell madly in love with the nephew of her childhood nanny who she had remained close to and visited often.
A nice, quiet and exceptionally normal young man beginning his career as a first year professor of Anthropology at the University of Kansas.
James was furious and he wasn't quiet in his disappointment. His daughter loved him, but remained unmoved. The memories of her own unhappy mother weighed down by the burdens of the expected dynastic marriage still crystal clear in her mind.
In spite of being sharply disinherited by her very traditional and very angry father who refused to have any part in their wedding, the happy young couple settled in Lawrence, Kansas where a year later they welcomed their daughter.
Named for her deceased English grandmother, Camilla, or Millie for short, was given an All American girl upbringing with only the basic understanding of what her maternal line family heritage was really all about. Her mother was determined that she be given the opportunity to choose her own path instead of bowing to the pressures and obligations of being a legacy.
An uneasy thawing in relations between her parents and her grandfather when Millie turned nine allowed for her to meet and eventually form a relationship with James. Keenly feeling his failings in the upbringing of his own daughter, he took it upon himself to instruct his granddaughter in the general ideals of the Men of Letters, but as a product of an older generation where chauvinism was still the order of the day, he also didn't necessarily support the notion that Millie was a good fit for the organization in her own right.
He had already seen what happened to some of the women who got too closely involved, with the tragic tale of the headstrong and doomed Dorothy Baum being one of the highlights. Although James had done everything in his power to help her, he never got close enough to figuring out what happened the day that all hell broke loose in the bunker.
He wanted Millie to be protected from a similar fate.
That however didn't prevent him from approving of Millie's budding relationship to the charismatic Henry Winchester once the two legacies formed a young attachment, even though James himself was long gone from this world before they could make it official.
Henry graduated Northwestern with honors just in time for the outbreak of the Korean War. Determined to do his duty like his father and grandfather before him, it was his intention to sign up for service. Firmly believing that it was his obligation both as an American and as Man of Letters in training to heed the same call that the older Winchester men had.
It was only the distress of engaging in several heartbreaking and bitter arguments with his distraught and widowed mother that stayed his hand from signing the enlistment papers the very first day war was declared. Something for which he found it hard to forgive her, as much as he understood the emotional blackmail she employed against her only child.
Millie, who was by now his fiance, was in full agreement with her future mother-in-law, and Henry came to the unhappy realization that it was going to be necessary to fight both of the women in his life on this matter. Something that was going to be necessary, but that Henry wasn't looking forward to just the same.
The last thing he wanted was to go to war with his mother and his love angry at him.
To his great surprise one of his mentors, Cuthbert Sinclair, eventually convinced Henry that his real value to the cause lay in his work for the organization as a civilian and member in training as opposed to being a soldier on the front lines. A goal with the future of the Men of Letters at stake and not many who could carry the torch for years to come. Two world wars had greatly thinned an already small roster in their ranks and the organization itself couldn't afford to unnecessarily lose many more young men who were the hope of the next generations.
Passionate but decidedly unskilled in the art of warfare, the stubborn young man conceded the point, and to make up for it he threw himself into his studies with a fierceness that did nothing to mask his undercurrent of anger that he wasn't living up to his father's expectations for him.
Realistically he knew that the path to initiation was long and rocky, far beyond the devotion it took to receive his college degree, but he never fully gave up the idea of enlisting right up to the day that peace was declared. Always on the verge of reporting to the nearest enlistment office and somehow always talked off the ledge by the smooth tongued Cuthbert.
The Korean was was not WWII, and it ended quite a bit faster than the people who had lived through one twice it's length expected it to. Unwilling to put off the work required to more rapidly advance through his levels of knowledge, Henry had made Millie wait for her wedding to the distress of the young lady and her parents who wanted to see their daughter settled.
Though it wasn't out of any kind of pettiness on his part. Quite the contrary.
Henry had seen his own mother become a war widow and that wasn't what he wanted for the woman he loved. When peace was finally declared and Henry knew for sure that he wouldn't be heading to an unknown fate overseas, he consented to set the date.
The wedding itself was a simple but joyous occasion. A ray of sunshine that helped the attendees look past another tragic bump in the road of life. Although this one hadn't necessarily inspired the rallying spirit of the nation as a whole like its predecessor had.
The picture perfect blushing bride, Millie had walked down the aisle in a fashionable tea length dress of lace and silk with a voluminous skirt that would have made Audrey Hepburn jealous and her perfectly coiffed curls topped with a bouffant veil of tulle. Her pristine white leather peep-toe pumps barely containing the spring in her step as she finally made her way to the alter.
Like most young lovers of the day the newlywed couple honeymooned in the cliched paradise of Niagara Falls for two blissful weeks of unbridled romance, and by the time they returned to Henry's childhood home in Illinois Millie was already pregnant.
Becoming a married man with impending fatherhood on the horizon had greatly impacted Henry's outlook on life. Still fully dedicated to the cause of the Letters, he also found himself realigning his priorities to give just as much attention to his growing family as he did to his studies. The cautionary words of his mother-in-law and what being a full member had the capability of doing to a marriage echoing in his mind.
Responsibility to them meant being a good provider first and foremost, so Henry requested and received a position with a company in Peoria that was quietly operated by the St. Louis chapter house that designed components for the newly emerging computer market. It was significantly closer to Normal than it was to St. Louis and the members were excited at the idea of having someone that played for their team in the office on a daily basis, so it was a win-win all around.
Peoria was a manageable drive from Normal where both Henry's mother and his own chapter house were and where he had always preferred to settle down. It didn't take a lot to convince the very bubbly and happily expecting Millie to choose a family home in the area from a lovely selection presented to her by a local realtor.
Henry's job, besides being something he was genuinely interested in, paid well for a young man and it was a nice bonus on top of the family money that he already possessed. Before Millie was even showing, the young couple settled into a very nice four bedroom, two and a half bath colonial in one of the better neighborhoods.
That was another nice thing about dynastic families. They were usually comfortably well off.
Although the Winchester family through the years had always maintained an upper middle class and respectable lifestyle in public, the organization itself as well as its members had centuries of accumulated fortunes behind them. The talismans and medallions and other occult items that they had always trafficked in were practically priceless in the right markets, and careful investments over the years paid for all of the unlimited and exotic travel and the upkeep of the chapters, and all of the fun toys and mystical potions and spells that the members used in their studies as well paying the generous living expenses of it's active members.
Keeping a low profile was just a necessity for men who didn't want to stick out and be identified by those who would seek to destroy them and their families.
John Eric Winchester was born almost nine months to the day after the wedding of his doting parents.
Unlike Millie, who took to motherhood like a duck to water the minute her son's chestnut crested head exited the birth canal, Henry, pacing nervously in the waiting room, was having a bit of a panic attack. Accompanied by David Ackers and Ted Bowen from the chapter house as well as his mother and in-laws, the young man couldn't keep still for a moment until the nurse came in to inform him that the birth was over and mother and child were doing well.
Uncharacteristically trembling as he strode towards his wife's room, it wasn't until he held his tiny son in his arms for the first time that he seemed to feel he was given the key to understanding of all the mysteries in life.
Knowing on a cellular level that all he ever was and all he would ever be was for the purpose of helping to create this amazing little creature swaddled in his arms. Pink faced and squirming with the look of the wisdom of ages in his birth blue eyes.
From the moment his son arrived, Henry began to prepare for the day when he would instruct his own son into the ways of Letters. Behind on his own schedule of initiation due to the time constraints of his work and the uncertainty of the war years, Henry now resumed a hectic daily routine of employment, fatherhood and study at a punishing pace.
Thankfully Millie was a devoted mother that shouldered the vast majority of parenting chores, but the young father found himself counting down the hours at work each day until he could dash home and play with his son.
John was an eternally happy child whose affectionate and sunny personality brought more daily joy to the lives of his parents than they felt deserving of.
Once out of the baby years, he was the typical rough and tumble little boy. One who liked to jump in mud puddles after the rain and chase frogs along the grassy bank of the little stream that bordered the backyard of their house. He would come home wet and muddy, but smiling so hugely with those big round eyes that had darkened to a hazel brown and the crater deep dimples that punctured his chubby cheeks.
Millie would just melt from the terminal cuteness of her child and never scolded him for the dirty footprints he left behind on her squeaky clean floors.
John steadfastly watched at the window like an attentive sentry for his father to come home at night, excited to have Pops read him stories from the books of fantasy and magic that lined the shelves of his room, because Henry believed it was never too early to start his education on lore and mysticism. Never failing to make Millie's heart burst with love when the little boy brought his mother bouquets of handpicked flowers from the field where Henry taught him to play baseball on the weekends.
Their child could be fierce at his pretend play of being one of the Knights of King Arthur's round table, his toy sword threatening to cut down any danger to their happy little family, but he also had a tender heart that beat out of his chest in fear when an unwise choice of film at a drive-in movie scared him into needing a music box at bed time to soothe him to sleep.
Henry worked hard and studied harder, inching his way ever closer to initiation day. Giving daily thanks for his lovely wife who made them all a warm and loving home and the son who was everything to him.
When the last level of knowledge was finally finally drawing to an end, his deficiency in grasping all the intricacies of spell work impeding his progress, Henry was paired with the controversial choice of the beautiful Miss Josie Sands for final weeks. A fiery redhead who was not part of the Men of Letters dynasty, Josie had been specially recruited from Wellseley College by an initiative of the New England Chapter House looking for an equitable solution to their dwindling ranks.
Josie was spirited and a brilliant scholar. Attractive and single, but not looking for a husband, which made her acceptable as a candidate by the old men that didn't want a nursing mother on their roster. She had first come to the attention of an associate of the Letters, Father Max Thompson, when he gave a lecture at the Catholic high school that Josie had attended in St. Louis.
Intrigued by the young woman's knowledge and curiously of demonology, Father Thompson had kept a special eye on her educational development for a few years, and when he heard about the east coast initiative to sow the seeds of expansion towards more women in the organization, he immediately put Josie's name forth as a potential candidate.
Josie was thrilled by the opportunity offered to her and she plowed her way through the levels of knowledge with record breaking speed. Her enthusiasm and technical knowledge was enough to grant her the opportunity to observe and record Father Thompson's controversial exorcism ritual where he attempted to cure a demon of it's ruined soul, and when Henry Winchester needed a partner on his mandatory field assignment at a convent where demon activity was suspected, Josie was tapped to join the mission and earn the required credentials to qualify for her own initiation date.
To Henry, it was a successful mission and everything was going well.
Until one day it didn't.
/
"Which one of you is John Winchester?"
Dean stood stock still, physically paralyzed as he stared unblinking at the unknown being that had just tumbled from the hall closet of his house.
Just because he had seen a lot of inexplicable crap in his life didn't mean that his mind didn't need more a than a freakin' nanosecond to process and he blearily wondered if the worm in the tequila last night had been especially toxic to cause his brain to malfunction like this.
John didn't have that problem.
Not only because whoever this thing was, it knew his name, but because he very clearly recognized the face it was using to try and trick him. Even though it had been a lifetime since he last encountered it, there were just certain images that imprinted themselves on your brain whether you wanted them to or not.
The creature had sorely miscalculated if it thought that impersonating a long detested deadbeat, looking not even a day older than he had the last time John had seen him, was a smart move.
Given their past history, John wouldn't have even blinked about shooting his real father, let alone the scum stupidly wearing his face.
Unfortunately for the intruder John didn't even take a dump without being armed, so just because he had recently returned from a run it didn't mean he was caught off guard. Reaching for the gun he always had hidden at his back, he swung it forward without the slightest hesitation.
Years of experience and the eyes of a sharpshooter had him expertly leveling his piece up the exact distance he needed for the threat to be a not-so-subtle suggestion that their guest freeze in his tracks, and yet still far enough away to prevent it from grabbing the weapon from him.
Dean was motionless except for the slight movement of his mouth that had him gulping like a fish out of water at the unwanted visitor.
Annoyed that the boy's years of training, hampered by an apparently hellacious hangover, seemed to be failing him spectacularly, John couldn't take the chance that his momentarily stunned child would accidentally move into the sight line if the thing charged them.
Knowing perfectly well that Dean wasn't armed himself at the current moment.
The fact that a professionally trained hunter refused to carry when he was home had been the subject of a number of lectures from John in the past and he made a mental note to reference this particular morning during the next one.
At least his son was cognizant enough to catch the almost imperceptible flicker of John's free hand that directed him to shift slightly behind his father. Which he did immediately, lessening the chance that John would lose his currently greater advantage against the intruder in order to protect his boy against any sudden movement.
With both of the Winchesters silent, the closet traveler shifted slightly forward in agitation, only to jerk back quickly from the ominous click of John cocking the trigger.
"Please!" it implored, eyes going wild in desperation. "Which of you is John Winchester?"
"You've really fucked up this time buddy," John growled, his face twisted up in a cruel smile. "The only thing that face you're wearing is gonna get you around here is a bullet in the brain."
Whatever it was seemed truly puzzled by the amount of hostility in the eyes of the man holding the gun and his desperation was growing.
"Sir, please. Time is of the essence!"
John however was perfectly calm. In no rush whatsoever to do anything the thing was asking for. Breaking its way into his son's home was the last mistake of its sorry life as far as he was concerned. He nudged his head towards the center of the living room without taking his eyes off the thing.
"Move."
Fortunately for its own survival, the thing complied and the two of them did a slow circular dance as they very carefully shifted their positions. When John had it standing directly on top of the devil's trap that lay hidden under the throw rug, he used his free hand to signal for Dean to retrieve the standard test items that they always kept at the ready in the kitchen.
"Please. I can assure you there's no need for violence," it protested, seeing Dean return quickly with a flask and an exceptionally sharp looking knife in his hand. "One of you must be John Winchester!"
John's anger was beginning to rise at the repeated invocation of his name. Yanking the now open flask from his son's hand, he flicked his wrist and sent a stream of holy water into the creature's face, annoyed by the lack of telltale sizzle.
"We'll ask the questions," he barked, slightly mollified to see Dean raise his own gun that he must have retrieved from his coat pocket. "Got him?"
"Yes, sir," Dean replied quietly, standing in perfect form with his weapon positioned right where John wanted it. John replaced his own into the waistband of his jeans and took the knife that his son was holding out for him, tossing the useless holy water flask on the coffee table.
"Gentleman, this obviously has all been a tragic misunderstanding," the thing said politely, with just the slight hint of fear in its voice as John slowly advanced on it, the glint of the knife reflecting in his eye.
"It is tragic," John agreed, just before he grabbed the creature's left arm and swept a leg behind its left knee, forcing it down onto the carpet. With a rapid flash of movement, John dragged the coat and shirt sleeves a few inches up the thing's arm and roughly slashed a cut on the exposed skin with the silver knife.
John cursed under his breath when there was no reaction to that either other than a sharp grunt of pain and low hiss. "Hunters."
Frustrated and a little curious, John allowed it to get back to its feet. Without taking his eyes off it, he moved slightly back to give it the room needed so he could see if it could breach the boundaries of the devil's trap it was enclosed in. Demon, being the only other explanation for the shape it had taken.
"What do you have against hunters?" John carefully taunted, trying to make it come towards him by leading with his own backwards movement.
"Aside from the unthinking, unwashed, shoot-first-and-don't-bother-to-ask-questions-later part, not much, really," it snapped as it straightened its jacket and tie.
"Ouch," Dean snarked, his sarcastic humor returning. "That really hurt."
John couldn't help the small grin that spread on his face from his son's attitude and he chuckled softly, successfully goading the creature into moving towards the door.
Where it unfortunately stepped right out of the devil's trap's perimeter.
Human?
"In the absence of any and all other explanations, I'll just be on my way," it said conversationally, as if they had simply encountered each other by chance on the street.
John immediately blocked the only possible escape and pulled his gun again, advancing threateningly on the creature, his already thin patience completely gone and his head beginning to ache monstrously from what had so far been a challenging morning.
"Yeah, that's not happening," he growled, raising the gun to the height of the thing's forehead and clearly ready to end the entire episode with some new decoration to his son's cream painted walls. "Why don't you start by telling us everything before I beat it out of you."
With a gun pointed at him from each direction Henry took a deep breath and weighed his options. Sorely unprepared for the manner of his arrival, he didn't have a weapon or any further ingredients to spell cast and make his way clear. All he knew was that his incantation had gone terribly wrong and he needed to figure out how to fix this mess.
Something that would be difficult if he couldn't get these two mouth breathing hunters away from him, and the very idea that he was being forced to justify himself to them just irritated him even further.
"I'm quite certain this is all beyond your understanding, my alpha-male-monkey friend. And violence will not help you comprehend this any easier."
The older one with the dark hair laughed, as most hunter apes would when confronted with the things they couldn't explain, and Henry seethed at the impudence for a moment before he caught a quick glimpse of a pair of dimples that were hiding deep in the scruffy beard the man wore.
The recognition hit him like a punch to the gut and all the air in his lungs whooshed out as he looked into the round hazel brown eyes and saw his tiny boy in them.
Casting his eyes around the room they were in, Henry took notice of the advanced technological changes in the television that sat in the wooden display next to him. The bright red numbers that was certainly a far more advanced clock than anything from his own time glowing from a side table next to the couch. Clearly many years had passed.
Obviously far more than he had been aiming for.
His precious small boy was now a grown man.
"My God," he moaned, his heart flip-flopping from being caught in a dance of joy and sadness. "John?"
The man that was certainly his beloved son flinched for a fraction of a second before his eyes steeled over and the smile that had been dancing around the corners of his mouth rapidly turned into a menacing frown.
"Who are you, asshole?" John growled, his deep voice like the rumble of thunder in a dark sky before a violent storm.
"You know who I am, John," Henry said quietly with a hint of fear and desperation in his voice. "What happened to you?"
At John's glare, Henry deflated a bit and raised his hands in a show of surrender while he slowly moved back to sit on the couch. His tumbling emotions causing his knees to go a little weak and unable to keep him standing any longer. The younger man followed his movements with the barrel of his gun, shifting slightly to stand next to John but not taking his eyes off of Henry for a second.
"Dad, who is this guy?" the young man asked, glaring distrusting at Henry's slumped form and causing John to stiffen in response.
Henry's shoulders sagged even further at the look of hatred he saw on his son's face, and when it didn't appear that John was prepared to answer the question, he answered it himself. "I'm his father."
The young man did then shift to face John and just as John opened his mouth to speak there was a terrible rattling noise from the direction of the closet that could only mean one thing. Henry leapt to his feet, ignoring the way his son threatened his movements with his weapon again and looked both of them straight in the eye.
"Run!"
Before any of them could even think about moving, there was a flash of light and then the closet door flew wide open, revealing the grotesquely grinning and blood spattered meat suit that had formerly been Henry's dear friend Josie.
"Henry," Abaddon laughed cruelly. "Silly man, you forgot to lock the door. But then spells never were your best subject, were they? Why don't you be a doll and give me what I want? And I promise to kill you and your friends here quickly."
John and his son lined their sights on the new intruder, but before they could do anything Abaddon lifted her hand and flung the both of them forcefully into the wall behind where they had been standing. Henry watched in dismay as the younger man slipped down the wall, clearly unconscious while John was looking dazed towards where his weapon lay a few feet away from him.
"You know I can't do that," Henry said cautiously, anxious to keep the demon's attention on him and not his son and likely grandson.
Abaddon laughed and the sound sickened him as he thought of the torture Josie must be enduring right now. "You're not a fighter, Henry," she gloated as she sashayed her way towards him like a predator advancing on prey.
"Josie. I know you're still in there. You must fight this," he pleaded, putting extra emotion into his voice to distract the demon enough that she wouldn't notice John slowly inching towards his pistol.
Abaddon smiled widely, Josie's beautiful grin of perfect teeth looking deceptively friendly as she strolled easily across the room and stopped short in front of where Henry perched nervously on the couch. "I'm afraid Josie's indisposed, pet. It looks like it's just you and me."
A loud shot rang through the house and a second later Abaddon tumbled to the floor as Josie Sand's left knee was destroyed by the bullet from John's gun that was still smoking in his hand as he staggered to his feet. A few feet away the younger man was slowly coming to and Henry smiled when he saw his son move swiftly to stand in front of him protectively.
"Well, that is no way to treat a lady," Abaddon chuckled as she clutched the wound with one hand before she lifted the other.
When the light flick she directed at John failed to do anything to him, Henry watched as a look of enraged disbelief crossed her face. She tried again, and then one more time, and then opened her mouth to release an ear piercing scream of frustration that rattled the windows of the small house.
"Why am I stuck?" she yelled, the pitch of her voice causing the young man on the floor to cringe even as John reached a hand down to help lift him to his feet. Once he was standing, John slid his foot underneath the throw rug and lifted it just enough to show the enraged red head the safety orange spray painted line hidden underneath.
"Devil's trap, bitch," he sneered. "Dean, get the black tool box out of the back of the truck. We're going to have ourselves a good old fashion interrogation."
The young man Dean had clearly had enough of the activities of the past few minutes. "Dad, what the hell is going on around here? Where did she come from?"
Shaking his head angrily he turned his attention back towards Henry and glared with intensity of both the sun and Millie's bright green eyes. "Where did you come from" he demanded.
Standing up and skirting the perimeter of the carpet, Henry came as close to his son and grandson as John's gun allowed while Abaddon seethed in the center.
"She's from Hell," he said to his grandson as he straightened his tie. "I'm from Normal, Illinois. 1958."
"Don't talk to him," John snapped, his eyes blazing as he moved his gun closer to Henry's face. "Don't even look at him! Dean, the black tool box. Now!"
Dean looked at Henry for another split second, then at his father's furious face and turned around and went out the door. Henry rubbed a hand down his face and took a deep breath. shaking just a little. A wave of nausea crested into his mouth and he attempted to hold it back, not wanting to embarrass himself in front of his son, but when it insisted on erupting he turned away and vomited onto the hardwood floor.
Twice.
Across from him, he saw John roll his eyes while Abaddon laughed giddily from her place on the carpet.
"Oh poor Henry," she taunted. "I always said you didn't have the stomach for field work."
John shifted just enough to pull the trigger and a second later her other kneecap flew apart. She screamed in anger again but she was unable to move out of her invisible cage to rip his throat out as much as she desperately wanted to.
"Are you okay?" John asked grudgingly as he watched Dean through the window running up the front porch stairs bearing the requested box. A quick look around the wrecked room gave him a moment of thought that he and Dean were going to need to do some major clean up once this whole shit show morning was over.
"My apologies, John," Henry said to his son as he removed his handkerchief and wiped the spit from around his mouth. "It's just all the adventures I enjoy are usually of the literary nature."
Hobbled and bleeding on the carpet, Abaddon once again thrust her hand in the air futilely and roared her displeasure at the lack of movement. John saw Dean safely back inside the protection of the house and took the toolbox from his confused and fairly irritated son. Today's events were going to force a conversation that John had been putting off for a while and he wasn't looking forward to it.
"You can stop with the hocus-pocus hand puppet mojo," he sneered at Abaddon's enraged look. "Kitty can't use her claws in here."
Slowly he pointed upwards to the crown molding that he and Dean had installed around the perimeter of the room and swept his hand along it's length enough to reveal all of the spell work that was intricately carved into the wood.
Abaddon followed his movements, unable to hide her anger at being trapped. "Looks like your son is smarter than you, Henry," she spat out to his astonished face. "Must have gotten his brains from Millie."
Henry and John both flinched from the mention of Millie's name, but John recovered faster. He placed the toolbox on the coffee table and opened it, ignoring his son's wide eyed stare as he extracted two pairs of etched leather cuffs attached by heavy iron chains, followed by a medieval looking collar with similar etchings engraved into the metal.
Holding everything dangling in his hands, he advanced towards the devil's trap and glared at Abaddon menacingly. "Here's how this is going to go. I'm going to put these on you and ask all the questions that I want to. You're going to give me honest answers, and if I like what you say you might even get exorcised before I get to the really fun parts of my job."
Abaddon tried futilely to struggle to her feet but couldn't due to the wardings suppressing her abilities to heal the damaged knees enough to use them.
"You don't frighten me, John," she stated hatefully, the rage in her voice making it tremble. "And when I get loose..and I will..I'm going to kill you and your father very very slowly. And that pretty little boy over there? Well he gives a girl all kinds of nasty ideas. Once you two are dead I'm going to blow smoke up his ass and we're going to have a grand old time."
From over in the corner where he'd been watching Dean smirked and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ooh. Well, I gotta tell you, between you and me, it is a horror show up there," he said mockingly, enjoying the agitation on her face.
She shot him a look of pure venom, emboldened by the flinch she saw John make involuntarily. "It can get worse. Trust me," she taunted. " 'Cause once I'm on top, I'll make you watch. And I'll use your body. Have you ever felt an infant's blood drip down your chin? Or listened to a girl scream as you rip her guts out? Because you will. It's you and me, lover."
"Enough!" John barked. "You're not getting anywhere near my son. I will end you long before you get one step closer to him."
"You can't kill me," Abaddon gloated as she flipped a loose curl of Josie's red hair out of her eyes and wiped some of the smeared lipstick from her mouth as if she was getting ready to go out for the evening.
"No," John said, nodding his head in agreement as he slightly rattled the chains he was holding. "But by the time I'm done with you, you'll wish you were dead. You came into my children's home. That was a really big mistake."
Henry had been quietly watching the interactions, still awestruck by the unpleasant realization of encountering his very angry grown son who, for some reason, was a hunter. The very idea itself making him sick to his stomach. He also was inordinately fascinated by the notion of seeing his grandson. Tall and strong and carrying so many features of his sweet Millie that it made Henry's chest ache.
He needed to protect them both from the amateur mistakes that mindless hunters were prone to make.
"You can't exorcise her either, Son," he cautioned, slightly intimidated by the glare his son threw him. "That's Abaddon."
John's eyebrows lifted in surprise for a quick second before he steeled his gaze as he seemed to give the demon a second once over. Dean was frowning, confused over whatever information everyone in the room seemed to share except for him. "Dad? Who's Abaddon? What does he mean?"
"She's a Knight of Hell," John said quietly, never dropping his glare from her as she smiled in triumph. "Handpicked by Lucifer himself."
"I'm so pleased you've heard of me," she crowed. "Makes things so much easier when I don't have to explain how royally screwed you all are."
John nodded his head as if in agreement before turning to rummage in the toolbox again. When he withdrew his hand he held a small box that he opened to reveal a few lines of neatly arranged bullets, all with ornate markings in the tips. He emptied the clip from a second gun he pulled from underneath his pant leg and deftly replaced the bullets with ones from the little box and then slammed it back into the hand grip.
Pulling the slide to chamber a round and grabbing the flask of holy water from the coffee table he strode across the carpet, sent a wave of water splashing into the demon's face that made her recoil and then roughly grabbed Abaddon by back of her hair. Before she had a chance to fight, he yanked her head back and fired a round up through her chin into her brain.
"Welcome to the last meat suit you'll ever have," he growled before shoving her roughly to the floor and leaving the trap. "Dean, call Singer and tell him to get over here. All these gunshots are going to have the neighbors speed dialing 911. Fucking suburbs."
Although he felt like he'd been taking crazy pills for the last thirty minutes or so, Dean pulled out his his phone and dialed, giving Bobby the Clifs Notes version and telling him to haul ass.
Another rummage in the black toolbox produced a leather gag etched with the same spell work that after another holy water shower John roughly snapped across Abaddon's mouth and tightly fastened around the back of her head.
"That big mouth of yours isn't helping either."
She fought him to the best of her extremely limited ability as he bound her hands and feet with the cuffs and chains and then snapped the collar around her neck before hauling her up over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Barely looking backwards, he snapped the fingers of his free hand to get his distracted son's attention.
"Dean! Get that carpet rolled up and squared away somewhere out of sight. Then get one of the spares we bought and cover the trap. Then see what you can do about cleaning up the spatter before we have company."
Shaking his head back to awareness, Dean immediately shifted into high gear. "Yes, sir," he answered smartly, ignoring the frown on Henry's face as he watched John start to walk away.
"We need to talk, John!" he called out after his departing son, who only waved away his free hand in dismissal as he opened a door off the kitchen and disappeared through it, slamming the door behind him.
"Hey, H.G. Wells!" Dean barked. "You wanna quit your gawking and give me a hand over here since you just single-handedly ruined my day and possibly my entire existence?"
Henry came back to himself at the rebuke and nodded, removing his coat to neatly fold it and put it aside as he helped his grandson roll up the ruined carpet. He took a moment to admire the excellent detail of the devil's trap, pleased that John seemed to know what he was doing. Grabbing one end of the carpet, he hefted it up and followed Dean's lead to the very closet that he had popped out of, now back to it's original use as storage, where his grandson shoved it into the far back corner and draped it with a spare blanket he pulled from a shelf at the top before shutting the door closed again.
"We have to go upstairs to get the other one," Dean muttered as he motioned for Henry to follow him.
As he climbed the stairs in his grandson's wake, Henry took a moment to look around and assess the home where John's son apparently lived. While it was habitable enough, it wasn't quite the level of affluence that Henry expected from any descendant of his. He and John were clearly going to have to have a talk about standards and expectations of Winchester men in the future.
When they reached the second floor Dean motioned him over to another hall closet where the younger man tugged a slightly smaller carpet roll from the recesses of the mostly empty cubicle. Since there wasn't enough space inside to fit the both of them, Henry took a second to glance through the open door of what was obviously a bedroom. Sparsely but tastefully furnished and reasonably tidy except for the large unmade bed with an inordinately excessive amount of pillows scattered around the head of hit. A bathroom in the room beside it with only a few toiletries lying neatly on the counter, and then another door on the far side of the hallway that was closed shut.
It didn't quite look like a home that had a woman's touch, although Dean was certainly of an age when he should already be married and settled down.
"Yo! You with me?" Dean snapped, face irritated as he dragged the carpet roll out of the closet by himself.
Henry shook himself back to attention to what they were doing and gave him a quick nod as he grabbed his end. Moving carefully but as swiftly as they could they descended the stairs where Dean looked out the front living room window and saw a Sioux Falls police cruiser with Bobby's truck parked behind it. Outside on the sidewalk the salvage man was engaged in a spirited discussion with a petite brunette in uniform that looked ready to pull her gun on him.
"Shit," Dean muttered as he moved a little faster, dragging Henry along with him. He quickly unrolled the carpet and kicked it into place as fast as he could before darting into the kitchen and swiftly returning with two spray bottles and a handful of rags. He threw one of the bottles at Henry along with a rag and then got to work wiping the traces of red from the walls.
"You gonna help me clean this fucking mess up or are you just going to stand there with your thumbs up your ass all day?"
"Of course," Henry replied as he rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and chose a section to spray and wipe. "Is it really necessary for your and your father to use so much profanity all the time?"
Dean stopped what he was doing for a quick second to roll his eyes and shake his head in disgust before resuming his duties. "Man, I don't know how you got here, but if you're who you say you are? I wouldn't be sitting there getting all judge-y about my language. Capisce?"
Henry took a deep breath and straightened up, wiping his hands on a clean rag and extending towards his grandson. "Of course. That's very rude of me under the circumstances. We haven't even been properly introduced. Henry Winchester."
Looking at the outstretched hand, Dean chuckled humorlessly and shoved another bundle of rags into it. "Clean. Before we all get thrown in jail for roughing up Demon Betty Crocker."
Rebuffed, Henry took the rags and set back to his task. Obviously this wasn't the right time to make inroads with his rather rude grandson, but under the circumstances he could hardly be blamed. It was a lot to take in all at once. They worked arduously for another couple of minutes before the front door opened without warning and an older man in dirty jeans, a threadbare flannel jacket and a stained ball cap came strolling in alone.
"Everybody copacetic in here?"
Henry couldn't help but notice that Dean seemed to lose some of the stiffness in his shoulders from the presence of their new arrival. The young man turned around and grimaced but nodded. "Yeah. Thanks, Bobby."
"Who's this guy?" Bobby asked Dean, jerking his thumb over to where Henry was scrubbing at a particularly large patch of blood. "You in the neighborhood looking to spread the Good Word?" he said, casting a derisive look over Henry's pressed dress shirt, tie and tailored pants.
Standing back up straight and putting his cleaning materials on the coffee table, he stretched his hand out again. "Henry Winchester."
Bobby's eyebrows lifted practically off of his head as he turned to look at Dean who only shrugged and kept cleaning before turning back to stare at the stranger. "Come again?"
"It's a long story," Henry explained, lowering the hand once he realized that the grubby man wasn't any more polite than his grandchild. "And no concern of yours, sir."
"Is that right," Bobby sneered, huffing as he walked over to Dean. "Where's your daddy, boy?"
"Basement."
Bobby nodded and patted Dean on the shoulder. "I told Deputy Mills that you were doing some target practice behind the house, but there's no chance in hell she bought it. You keep a low profile for the next couple'a days because she's gonna be watching. You hear me?"
"Loud and clear," Dean answered before straightening up and gathering his used rags into a pile. He turned towards Henry and held his hand out for the ones Henry had cast aside as well, pitching them all into the small plastic bag that Henry hadn't noticed earlier. "You taking this stuff with you, Bobby?"
"Yep. Put 'em all in the empty box for that socket set I gotcha for your birthday if you still have that hanging around."
Dean nodded and tied up the bag while Bobby headed towards the kitchen and disappeared behind the door where John had gone earlier. Henry watched uncomfortably as Dean retrieved a box with a colorful photo of socket wrenches on it, extracting a black plastic carrying case that he set aside before shoving the used garbage inside of it and sealing it back up. He walked over to the front door and set it down on the floor and then entered a small bathroom next to the closet and washed his hands, wiping them on a towel as he came back into the living room.
"Would'ja quit staring?" he snapped at Henry as he thew the towel onto the puddle of vomit that remained on the floor. "It's just creepy, dude."
"I'm sorry," Henry said, nodding his head. "It's not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable."
"Oh yeah?" Dean snorted sarcastically. "Well, then you're about an hour too late, pal. That plan went out the window the minute you came falling out of my damn closet before I even got my second cup of joe. How'd you even do that anyway?"
Henry frowned at the question, because a grandson of his should have known what the answer was if his training was worth anything. There were now several things on the list that he would need to discuss with his son.
"It's a blood sigil," he explained. "Blood leads to blood. I used my blood, an angel feather, tears of a dragon and a pinch of the sands of time. Along with tapping my soul for the energy to drive it."
"I'm sorry, what?" Dean asked, cocking an eyebrow at his grandfather. "Your soul? You're telling me you can harness the power of your soul to cast a spell?"
Henry shook his head in disbelief, his brow furrowed in annoyance at the young man's ignorance. "Of course. You should already know this. What level are you?"
"Level of what?"
"Level of knowledge," Henry explained as if he was talking to a child instead of a grown adult. "You're in training to be a Man of Letters are you not?"
Dean smirked and shook his head, running a hand across the top of his spiky hair. "I'm a little rusty on my boy bands," he snarked, much to the displeasure of his grandfather. "Men of what?"
"Men of Letters," Henry stated emphatically. "Like your father, who taught you our ways."
Now Dean just laughed outright as he dropped down onto his couch and threw his feet up on the coffee table, still in pain from his hangover and so very very over this entire day already. "Yeah, I have no idea what that is. My dad taught me to be a hunter. Sorry to break it to you."
Henry's worst fear had come true with that statement and he couldn't hide how completely crestfallen he was at the revelation. It was an absolute sacrilege that any child of his or grandchild for that matter would eschew generations of family tradition to become mindless killing machines incapable of advanced thought.
"You're not. Are you? Hunters? Well, hunters are... Hunters are apes. You're supposed to – you're legacies."
"Legacies of what?" Dean demanded, all patience gone from the completely fucked up way his life had turned on a dime over the course of one morning.
If it wasn't for the fact that he knew his father would not want to let this guy, who may or may not be Dean's own grandfather, be alone for any length of time, Dean would already been down in the basement demanding answers. As it was, Henry just sat in the chair next to the couch and put his head in his hands, and Dean was too tired and too pissed off to take the conversation any further at the moment.
Apparently he now lived in a world where time traveling through closets was a thing. Dad not only knew a crap ton more about demons than he had ever let on to his faithful son who always always had his back, but also had the means to trap and interrogate them without blinking.
Torture was on the menu. Long missing and detested grandfathers were in weirdo magical cults that used some freaky kind of soul voodoo, and Dean just wanted a time machine of his own to go back to yesterday and be able to throw out that second bottle of tequila.
"You're cleaning up that puke, Grandpa."
/
While life as the rest of Sam's family knew it had come to a screeching halt in South Dakota, he was loping into a diner a few miles down the street from campus and then lowering himself into a booth where his friend Zach was playing a very public game of tonsil hockey with his new girlfriend Emily. He smiled to himself as the loved up couple continued to ignore his presence until the waitress put down a cup of coffee in front of him with a big smile.
"Hey Sam," she greeted, not bothering to take out her pad. "The usual?"
"Hi Monica. Please. That would be great," he answered with a dimpled smile in return, dragging the coffee cup over and dumping an unhealthy amount of sugar into it.
Once it was doctored enough, he took a grateful sip and chuckled under his breath, not realizing that his other friends had arrived until Brady shoved him over and balled up Sam's napkin and threw it at Zach's head.
"Yo! Romeo! Come up for some air, man. She's gonna suffocate."
Sam and Brady laughed at Zach's sheepish expression as he finally extricated himself from Emily's throat. Luis had grabbed an unused chair from one of the center tables and dragged to the booth to place at the end before turning it around and straddling it.
"And where were you last night, Mr. Alley Cat?" he teased, laughing with the other boys as Zach sputtered and Emily blushed.
Sam drank his coffee and sat back in the booth to enjoy the light banter with his friends.
It had become a habit lately to meet for breakfast at the little diner every Friday morning since none of the four boys had early classes that day. Not even the studious and overloaded Sam had anywhere specific to be before 10 am. They would gather together somewhere off campus just for the variation of scenery. Drinking large quantities of coffee to get their blood racing and eating food that wasn't mass produced in the dining hall. Sam would run there to get in some exercise ahead of time which allowed him a little extra sleep in the morning and afterwards Brady would drive him back to campus in time for class.
They all chatted for a few more minutes until Monica brought over a tray that she set down on the tray stand next to their booth and unloaded the plates in front of them. They all ordered the same thing every week so it made her job easier when all she had to do was put in the standing order when she saw them walk in. Placing a small plate with a grilled blueberry muffin on it in front of Sam she pursed her lips but didn't say anything. It wasn't her place to comment on the eating habits of a customer.
"Sam, c'mon man," Zach griped as he dug into his loaded omelet with hash browns and a double side of bacon. "You worked off the calories for that thing before you even left campus."
Sam rolled his eyes and spread a jelly packet on half the muffin. It was already a concession to have something so completely decadent and sugar laden in the first place. A once a week treat that he allowed himself as his own TGIF celebration. He had long ago given up on trying to explain to his friends that he didn't have the desire to clog his arteries before the age of twenty.
"You'll wish you followed my example when you're on your second bypass surgery," he taunted with a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"It's all the weed he smokes," Luis pointed out as he scooped a forkful of his egg white omelet, smacking his lips to prove to Zach what was missing. "Makes a growing boy hungry!"
Brady took a big mouthful of the homemade corned beef hash, not bothering to swallow as he pointed an accusing fork at Luis. "Yeah, you would know, Bob Marley. Considering that you indulge more than he does."
"Hey, I can handle my smoke," Luis protested. "Not like lightweight over there," he said, smirking at Sam who shook his head affectionately.
"I'm high on life, Luis."
The boys laughed until Zach shifted and pulled his buzzing cellphone out of his jeans pocket. He took a look at the caller ID on the exterior screen and smiled before opening the phone and pressing a button.
"Text from my sister, Becky," he told them, laughing when he brought up a photo. "She sent me a picture of her from the Bals d'Hiver."
He handed his phone over into the center of the table so that the other boys and Emily could see the picture of a very pretty little blonde in a strapless ball gown on the arm of a awkward looking boy in a tuxedo that had the stare of a deer in the headlights of a car.
"Ooh, she looks good!" Luis gushed, grabbing the phone to take a closer look. "Who's she wearing?"
Zach shrugged as the phone was passed to Sam and then Brady before making it's way to Emily. "I don't know. She went with some minor German prince that I never heard of."
Sam's eyebrows went up in surprise at the statement as Luis huffed in frustration. "I meant who designed her dress, heathen," Luis said in sad resignation as he kicked Zach under the table. Sam shook his head in disbelief at the oh so very casual way Zach mentioned his sister's date. "She went with a prince?"
Shrugging again, Zach put the phone back in his pocket and returned to snorkeling his food. "It's no big deal. There are tons of them in Europe. Why do you think my parents sent us to Rosey in the first place? Maman would die of happiness if Becky married into a title. Even one that's only by courtesy, considering a bunch of the royal houses aren't even recognized by their governments anymore."
"Oh well, if there are tons of them," Brady said sarcastically, nudging Sam's arm as they chuckled together. "Hardly seems worth it, then."
Sam laughed harder at the glare Zach threw them as Emily patted his shoulder consolingly. "At least Becky seems to have gotten the good looks in the family," he teased.
Zach snorted and nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but that was just luck on her part. We're adopted, so who knows what kind of troglodytes my birth parents are."
Sam reeled in shock for a second, having never really paid attention to the fact that dark featured Zach and his very pale sister looked nothing at all alike, and not really much like their parents either now that he was actually thinking about it.
"Well that's cool," Brady said as he took a slurp of his coffee and wiped his mouth. "Have you guys always known about it?"
Pushing away his empty plate, Zach leaned back and put his arm around Emily who nestled her head into his neck adorably. "Yeah, pretty much. Not that it ever mattered. My parents are awesome. My sister is mostly awesome, when she isn't being a pain in my ass. I never wanted any other family."
"She is very beautiful," Brady said, winking at Sam. "If Victoria and I ever.."
"Touch her and die," Zach stated bluntly, without a shred of humor in his voice. "Seriously. You'll be dead before you hit the ground."
The no-nonsense tone in Zach's voice cracked the others up and they burst out laughing as Brady raised his hands in submission before Zach smirked.
At least Sam wasn't the only one with a wildly overprotective big brother, he thought sadly. Missing Dean just a little bit more that morning than he had before breakfast.
/
The entire basement bedroom smelled like sulfur, ozone and blood.
The rotten egg smell and burning electric would eventually go away once John had finished his little chat with Abaddon and hauled her meat suit out of his son's home, but it was going to take awhile before he could scrub all of the coppery splashes from the floor and walls and make it clean enough to sleep in again.
Abaddon hissed through bloody teeth as John flung another stream of holy water in her face. For a demon she was looking pretty rough which was just too bad for her.
John waited with the patience of a saint for opportunities like the one he had just been handed out of the blue and he had absolutely no plans to waste it. He was energized, pumped full of adrenaline, and he was savoring every single grunt and moan that he could extract from such a high ranking hell spawn.
"Let's try this again," he said conversationally, ignoring her screech when he cut off another finger. "What's Azazel's endgame?"
Off to the side, Bobby leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. On a practical level he knew already that the meat suit wasn't going to survive this little encounter right from the jump considering it had a bullet in the melon, but that didn't mean that he was necessarily comfortable with watching John take it apart chunk by bloody chunk while it was still kicking.
"I already told you!" Abaddon seethed, her chest heaving from the pain of her skin still sizzling. "The princes don't share their secrets with us."
John pursed his lips as he poured some holy water on his favorite silver knife and then drew a long deep line down the side of the demon's face, taking just a little bit of satisfaction in the frantic grunts the wound produced.
"Now, see, I heard differently. I got a hold of one of your little minions a while back and he told me that you and ol' Yellow Eyes were tight. According to him, you were dead and I am so so glad he was wrong." John smiled, a true genuine smiled that scared the old demon much more than she was willing to admit.
"He also said that only one weapon could kill you," John continued as he moved around behind her and bent to whisper in her ear, "and I think I believe that one. But since I don't have it, I'm just gonna have to cut your head off so you don't smoke out, but not before I chop you into little bitty strips. And then? I'm going to put you in storage for eternity. It's up to you exactly how many pieces go in the box."
To prove his point, he lifted his heavy blade in the air and sliced through another finger, relishing the misery the demon emitted. He knew it made him a bastard to enjoy this, but he was so close to his goal he could touch it and the thought of that was making him a little more bloodthirsty than he would normally choose to be.
Abaddon glared, pure malicious hatred on her formerly pretty face as sweat poured down her temples mingling with the splashed holy water that continued to bubble and burn. "I. will. kill. you."
"No you won't, sweetheart," John gloated, just before he brought the knife down again with a ferociousness that even scared Bobby and hacked her bleeding hand off at the wrist.
When Abaddon went to scream again, John backhanded her so hard a tooth flew across the room, leaving droplets of blood spattered on her chin and neck and John's hand.
"Azazel!" John barked. "What is his endgame with these kids?"
Abaddon spat, another tooth coming loose but still hanging on by a root. She honestly had no idea what Henry's crazy son was talking about. It had been ages since she had last been summoned to do a prince's bidding and that was perfectly fine with her. Curling her lips up into a cruel smile, she changed tactics. "Sounds personal, John. Is one of them yours? Maybe that pretty boy upstairs? Afraid Azazel will turn him into his own personal plaything?"
"I'd worry about your own hide, if I were you," John threatened, but Abaddon could tell by the slight tremor in his voice that she had hit her mark.
"Such a good family man, John," she taunted, rolling her neck to ease the pressure of the collar that was practically choking her. "Too bad your own daddy can't say the same thing. He had some great times with little Miss Josie here. So many naughty nights away from you and Millie that even I'm embarrassed to tell you what they did together."
John flinched involuntarily but he schooled his face in a placid mask. The last thing he wanted to do was let this thing get in his head. It was a rookie move. Especially since it was well known just exactly how much demons were prepared to lie to get under someone's skin, get out of trouble or just for the sheer fun of it.
"I don't really care what that asshole did," he said calmly, swiping his blade down the front of his shirt to clean off some of the blood that might hinder his next clean cut. "I wrote him off a long time ago. It doesn't matter to me if he had a woman on every street corner."
It was a lie and they both knew it. You don't get that kind of reaction from someone who truly didn't care. But it was interesting that John had turned out to be nothing like his father expected him to. A hunter descended from one of the Men of Letters oldest families. The very idea was delicious.
"He never came home, did he?" Abaddon guessed, seeing the flicker in John's eyes that told her she was right. She laughed joyfully, as much as the collar allowed her to. "Oh that's just too perfect. It's a shame though. He never got to feel the pain of finding out that I personally slaughtered the entire Men of Letters roster before his initiation night."
In response, John hacked off another finger and this time she cackled instead of screamed. The look of irritation and frustration on Henry's son's face just too delightful to ignore.
"I thought about taking out the British chapter too," she continued, as if they were discussing what to have for dinner. "But I liked their style, to be honest. And since most of them are headed Hell's way anyway, I figured why not let them continue damning themselves. They'll come to us soon enough."
When John raised his hand again, she jerked back as far into the chair as she could. It was over for now and she knew it.
"Stop! I'm going to save us both some time," she stated plainly enough for John to halt his action. "All I know is that Azazel was looking for the door to Lucifer's cage. As far as I know he didn't find it, but since I apparently never return to 1958, I have no idea if he ever did. That's the truth."
John stared at her hard for a long minute and then nodded his head. He walked over to a table where he had a large machete waiting and picked it up. Turning back around he sauntered slowly over to her and lifted his arm to take the strike as Bobby removed the collar.
"Make it good, John," Abaddon warned, her lip drawn up in a sneer. "Because I'll be back someday and you'd better hope you and your boy are both long dead before that happens."
"I will," he agreed, right before he swung down hard and sent the severed head careening across the room.
Throwing the blade to the side, John wiped his bloody hands on a towel that he tossed back on his dresser and pounded up the stairs to the kitchen. Dean and Henry were still sitting in the living room and John put up a hand to stop his son from getting to his feet as he approached them. The two of them would have their talk later once John was done with his own father.
"Okay, Henry. Let's talk."
/